


Ruby (How High Have You Fallen?)

by VeteranKlaus



Series: Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel True Forms, Angst, BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Blood and Gore, Colour Blind Crowley, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Demon True Forms, First Kiss, Genderfluid Crowley, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, I swear it’ll happen at some point, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Some lovecraftian horror shit but like also not as horror-y/gory, Violence, Wings, hurt aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeteranKlaus/pseuds/VeteranKlaus
Summary: After pulling off an impressive body-swap stunt to trick Heaven and Hell into leaving them alone, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves sticking around in America to keep an eye on the antichrist.It's not necessarily the antichrist they need to keep an eye on. Unbeknownst to any of them (save Crowley) Lucifer is free on Earth and eager to talk to his brother once more. Crowley's buried past begins to resurface, Heaven and Hell close in on them, and the Devil just wants the best for his brother. Really.





	1. Lead Me To Promised Lands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks have passed since the Armageddon-that-wasn't.  
> Crowley does some thinking on his Fall from Grace, and he finds out what 'happened' to Raphael, by Heaven's account.  
> His and Aziraphale's lunch date gets broken up most rudely, and team Free Will prove to be reliable once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to 'Rage Against The Dying Of The Light' and I do suggest you read that first. If you have; welcome to the sequel!  
> Am I going to kick the pining and angst up a notch or twelve? You bet. But that also gives me an excuse to have some sweet fluffy lovey stuff going on between it all.

_"Well, I knew what was going on, of course. Messengers and informants and everything. But to see it for myself... I think I might go to Nepal. Or China - didn't they build an impressive wall there?"_

_"The humans did. I could have built a better one."_

_A laugh. "Of course you could. Although, I thought your speciality was with the stars."_

_"It is. It was. Must we talk about this?"_

_He shuffled closer. "Don't you think it's important we do?"_

_"No."_

_"Why not?"_

_"I am not that person anymore. There's nothing to be done about that."_

_"It still hurts though, doesn't it?"_

_He looked away. "Of course it does. Must we really talk about this?"_

_"I understand you've changed - I mean, what a new name, right? But you didn't have to. Not while I'm back."_

_"Don't say that like you can... can get me forgiveness."_

_"You don't need forgiveness. You've seen the mess they are Up There. You don't really want to go back Up."_

_"Stop it. Enough of this. What is it you really want?"_

_Lucifer gave him a once-familiar look. "Don't be like that. It's been so long, all I want is to look around. Talk to my brother. Is that too much to ask?"_

_"People would tell me to leave right now. I shouldn't trust you."_

_He laughed. "Well, they don't know me like you do. I won't lie and tell you I'm the same; God knew exactly what She was doing, where She was putting us when She cast us out. But I am no less your brother."_

_"Of course not... I did miss you."_

_"As I missed you. I didn't think She would... cast you out. Really, I didn't think She would do that. You were always Her favourite."_

_Crowley scoffed, something harsh and bitter. "Don't be stupid. You were always Her favourite. If She could cast you out, no one else was safe. It doesn't matter."_

_"It does. I am sorry, Raphael -"_

_"Don't call me that."_

_"No one else knows, do they?"_

_"Know what?"_

_"Who you are."_

_"They know who am I."_

_"No, they don't."_

_"I told you. I am not that person any more."_

_A thoughtful look. "But they don't know. None of them do."_

_He sighed. "No, they don't."_

_"Why not? Do you know what would happen if they did?"_

_"I do. That's exactly why they don't know."_

_"I don't think you understand. Not really. You could change... so much. You could have such an impact."_

_"No." Forceful, definite. "I couldn't. I can't. I am not that person anymore. I don't have that power anymore. I don't want it back."_

_"Yes you do. We all do, brother. I mean... look at what She did to you. It pains me to look at, brother. Had I known that She would do that to you, I wouldn't have pulled you into it."_

_"No, no, no. Don't say that. It isn't your fault; She was never happy with my own questions. I would have been a pain for Her either way. I... I would have Fallen with or without my association to you."_

_"Maybe so. But it's so unfair, don't you think? The angel of healing. The humans needed you. You'd guide the travellers and teach the healers, you'd maintain harmony and peace. You could have created the perfect world for Her humans. A perfect, peaceful world free of pain and suffering and illness-"_

_"Stop it."_

_"And then She cast you out. Turned you into a demon. The creator of the original sin."_

_"Stop it, Lucifer. I know what I could have been. I know what I was going to do." His nails dug into the wood beneath him. "I know what I lost, Lucifer. I know what She made me into now."_

_"Oh, no, don't take it like that. She screwed us both over, sure, but don't take it as a loss._ _I mean, you've seen Heaven now; we dodged a bullet. What I am saying, brother, is that She had such plans for you. You had such power. You still do."_

_Lucifer leaned closer. He eyed him for a moment, and then he leaned back. His legs dangled off the bridge they were sitting upon, built over a large lake. It was dark, no lights around to help their sight. The lake below them reflected the sky, full of burning stars and galaxies, a never ending inky expanse of his creations. A slight breeze rustled the trees around them. Mountains closed them in, towering up against the sky._

_"Where is this?" Crowley asked. Lucifer blew out a breath._

_"Italy, I think. I thought it was nice."_

_"It is. What... what are you going to do?"_

_"What do you mean by that?"_

_"Well. You're out now. No one thinks you are. Heaven and Hell still want to fight and your antichrist put himself up for adoption. Surely you aren't just... wanting to look around?"_

_Lucifer's face tightened. "Low blow, brother. Low blow. I don't know. I'm afraid this body won't hold me forever; Hell took its toll on it." He held up a hand, the skin stretched tight over his knuckles._

_"One might think you should be able to make your own body, huh?"_

_Lucifer laughed. "Ah, once. Like you said; times change. She knew what She was doing when She cast me out. Now, I guess I've annoyed you enough with unwanted serious talk."_

_"I'm inclined to agree."_

_"Tell me about other things. What do you do? You've never been a fighter, I'm sure you've just rang circles around Hell._ "

_"Well, perhaps. I have a flat in London, actually. Humans make such good wine."_

_"What about, uh... that angel? The blonde one."_

_"What about him?"_

_Lucifer's lips spread in a grin; a teasing, childish grin, much alike two brothers teasing one another over a teenage crush. "You can't lie to me, brother. You're close with him. Rather close."_

_Crowley's cheeks burned and he looked away. "He owns a bookshop in London. We help one another out... he's good company."_

_"Not like other angels?"_

_Crowley shook his head. "Not at all."_

_"And here I thought you'd fall for a human, or something soppy like that."_

_Crowley barked a laugh and rolled his eyes. "You're funny."_

_Lucifer nudged him. "I always have been. And if you're happy, so am I, brother. But surely you know how... dangerous that is."_

_Crowley's smile dropped. "And what do you mean by that?"_

_Lucifer gave him a look. "If Heaven found out... he would not be spared a moment to try and explain, brother."_

_"I wouldn't let them." He said it a little fast, a little sharp, a little desperate. Lucifer smiled bitterly._

_"Of course you wouldn't. That worries me."_

_"What's the point of this talk? You're speaking like we're in love."_

_"Oh, don't be stupid. You might as well be Cupid. Whether you know it or not, you love that angel, don't you? It's clear as day. Your eyes, your little smile, how you speak to him."_

_"No - don't say stuff like that."_

_Lucifer grinned and nudged him, and then he turned back to gaze at the stars. "Whatever you say. Just be careful. I can only do so much."_

_"I don't need your, what? Your help with anything at the moment."_

_Lucifer hummed. "Maybe not. But what kind of brother would I be if I didn't fret over you? We need one another. Now more than ever."_

_Crowley's lips pursed and he regarded his brother. If he stared for too long, he could see wings stretching out beyond him; large, larger than any other angel's. Feathers were charred and singed, flesh burnt away to reveal bone. It made Crowley's throat tight._

_"We aren't in danger," he said._ _Lucifer raised an eyebrow._

_"And Heaven and Hell are A-Okay with your interference in Armageddon, right?"_

_Crowley looked away. Lucifer smiled. "And I don't fancy that feeling in the air just now," he continued. "Watch out today." He reached out and, despite himself, Crowley flinched. Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "Don't be like that."_

_"I've heard a lot about you," Crowley responded sheepishly. "You're the Devil."_

_"And I'm still your brother," Lucifer said. He sounded a little angry, a little hurt. "Why would I hurt you?"_

_Crowley did not respond. Rather, he focused on the way the mountains were beginning to shake and crumble, turn to ash and dust around them. Trees swayed violently. The only thing that existed was the abyss of space below them._ _Lucifer's hand settled on his back, right between his shoulders, right between his wings._

_"I would never hurt you."_

_Crowley fell._

He jerked awake on a couch, his body flailing and falling off the couch. He let out a yelp, pain radiating from his hips, blossoming from behind his eyes. An empty wine bottle told him the story behind that.

"Oh! You're awake!" Called Aziraphale. His footsteps tap, tap, tapped on the wooden floorboards as he scurried closer, and then his legs appeared in front of Crowley. "That can't be comfortable, come on." His hands helped him back up off the floor, depositing him onto the couch. Crowley groaned, slumping into it. A glass of water was thrust into his hand and he took it eagerly, downing it in a few gulps.

"Why are you always so bright in the mornings?" Crowley whined. Aziraphale had already begun to gather the wine bottles and take them into the kitchen.

"I'm a morning person," chirped the angel. A kettle boiled up in the kitchen and Aziraphale took the now-empty glass of water from Crowley's hand, setting it onto the coffee table in front of them.

It was two weeks after the Armageddon-that-wasn't, and two weeks after they pulled an impressive body-swap stunt to get Heaven and Hell off their cases for a while. Crowley didn't think they'd be gone for too long, however, like Aziraphale might hope. 

And unlike Crowley had wanted, they were still in America. He had been eager to return to his flat in London, to return to Aziraphale's little bookshop and to the Ritz. However, business called; they had to stay nearby the antichrist. Though the kid hadn't shown a single problem - hadn't lashed out with his powers at all, hadn't sought out Lucifer, any other angels or demons; he was simply living as any other eleven year old might. Nonetheless, he and Aziraphale still stuck around just in case.

They hadn't seen Sam, Dean or Castiel since, either. They had gone their own separate ways, and had not heard a single word from any of them since. Crowley didn't necessarily mind; they had their truce, worked together; and that was it. That was all. If something did come up, then Crowley still had their phone numbers, as they had his.

While staying in America they had gotten a cabin further out of Lebanon; if anything, ironically closer to the Winchester's bunker. It was out of the way, hidden more from the town and any angels and demons wandering around nearby. The cabin was small; one bedroom, one bathroom. Despite the fact that Aziraphale did not sleep and Crowley did, Crowley often found himself taking the couch, just on the off chance that Aziraphale might want to rest in the bedroom. Perhaps he was simply used to it from crashing on the couch back at his bookshop. The plants in and around the cabin had flourished, thanks to Aziraphale's constant praise, and he had even begun planting vegetables and fruit as of last week. 

"I think the place is quite cute," he commented, returning to his side with two cups of tea. He handed one off to Crowley and then he slumped into the couch next to him. "But I do miss my bookshop. I hope my plants are alright."

"I'm sure they are," Crowley replied with a shrug. His hands hugged the warm tea handed to him, blowing across the steaming surface. 

"I was thinking we could head out for lunch today; perhaps take a quick trip to Italy?"

Crowley grimaced. "Not Italy," he murmured with the shake of his head, for it seemed Lucifer was relaxing in Italy.

Since the Armageddon-that-wasn't, he hadn't reached out to Crowley. That had been a surprise, honestly; he had expected Lucifer to seek him out much earlier than he had, rather than popping into his dreams last night to have a chat. It had also been a surprisingly... innocent chat. He had toed the edges of sensitive topics, but otherwise he had simply spoken as if thousands of years hadn't passed, that they hadn't Fallen from Grace. He had teased Crowley like they were young again, had wondered about the world. He hadn't seemed at all like the 'Dark Lord' that Hell worshipped. 

Crowley didn't know what to make of it. He had yet to mention the fact that Lucifer was not, in fact, trapped in his cage in Hell once more. He knew that he should, of course; this was the Devil they were talking about, and what with the antichrist still being around, they had to be sure no one was around to interfere with Adam and bring about another Armageddon. 

On the other hand; he couldn't. He was not only the Devil but also the Morningstar that Crowley had lived and worked with. He was the only person who knew and accepted Crowley from before the Fall, who could understand what Crowley had gone through. 

_You didn't have to. Not while I'm back. You don't need forgiveness._

And whatever had he meant by that? That Crowley did not need to change from who he had once been. Certainly, he had once been an impressive being. A powerful, magnificent being of divine energy. But Lucifer could not expect him to return to such a thing, not now. 

The idea was... unsettling, too. It made his stomach coil with anxiety, stirred some long-dormant kind of hope. How childish was it, too? Childish and foolish. He had Fallen and had everything torn from him. He wasn't sure he exactly wanted what he had. It had been too long. 

"Well, if not Italy -"

"Aziraphale," interrupted Crowley. He eyed the swaying apple tree out the window. "What's Heaven like these days? How's good ol' G-God doing?" Her name stammered off his tongue, hesitant, reluctant, fearful. Aziraphale startled a moment, blinking, and then he shrugged.

"Well I think you would have seen it when we did the, er, body swap." He grimaced and let out a sigh. "Not... too well, I guess."

Crowley nodded. "I guess so. How many..." His lips pursed, unsure of his words, and Aziraphale simply sat, patient as ever, his hands holding his tea. 

"What's on your mind, Crowley?" He finally urged, and Crowley let out a dramatic groan. He raised one hand to rub his face. 

"Just..." what bad things could come from confiding slightly in Aziraphale? Just a little. Surely none. "Before the Fall. I've just been thinking about it."

Aziraphale perked up. Crowley knew the angel was thoroughly fascinated with Crowley's background, and Crowley had dodged his questions many times. Now, his eyes lit up with curiosity, an eagerness to learn more about Crowley, happy to see him opening up.

"I thought you couldn't remember anything from the fall," he commented. Crowley was quick to shake his head.

"No, no, I can't. But I've just been thinking about it," he shrugged nonchalantly. He took a sip of his tea and watched a raindrop race down the window. 

"Can I help?"

Crowley sighed. "I don't suppose Heaven was always as it is now," he said instead. "Michael, readily working with demons? Heaven must have been different, I think."

Aziraphale nodded sadly. "It wasn't always like this. Back in the Beginning, it was much more peaceful, more... loving. It isn't like that now."

"Wonder what happened," Crowley said. He leaned forwards, watching Aziraphale closely. Aziraphale's eyes were trained on his tea, his finger tapping the rim of his cup.

"Well, I'm not really sure," he admitted. "Michael wasn't always so... sly. Strict, perhaps, but Michael is a warrior. Gabriel was always close to God. Very fair and confident and just. A trickster, I think, from the tales; all of this was before my time, though. I didn't actually meet any archangels until Michael sent me to Earth, and only recently Gabriel. I suppose... well, I wasn't around for this, I don't believe, but I guess once one of the archangels died and Lucifer Fell, things got a little... stressed, I suppose."

"Since one of them died?" Echoed Crowley, curious, and Aziraphale nodded.

"Raphael." He almost looked a little shocked that Crowley didn't know, before he seemed to remind himself of the fact that Crowley, supposedly, couldn't remember a thing of Heaven. Nonetheless, Crowley's eyebrows shot up.

"Raphael died?" He echoed. The name felt foreign on his tongue; cursed to say. 

"Yes. A shame, really, although I never knew him - before my time, still. He died during Lucifer's fall, I believe. He was involved in restraining Lucifer, and he died doing so. I can assume that caused a lot of tension in the higher ranks."

Crowley didn't know what he had expected, really. They had to do something about Raphael, after all. Though, what with that poor excuse of a replacement for Gabriel (oh, how that infuriated Crowley. He had not time to dwell on that over the years, but he had noticed it the very first time he laid his eyes on this imposter. The real Gabriel must have gotten himself cast out shortly after Crowley had, or he had died, and Michael couldn't risk losing that many archangels in quick succession) he had half-expected them to grab some seraph and force them to pretend to be Raphael. Or they would say that Raphael was busy working in the cosmos and no one could see him. Then again, that would imply he was still close to God - so no, death was the only real option for Raphael. 

Crowley curled his hands into fists. "Huh."

"I assume things must have changed since your time in Heaven," Aziraphale said. Crowley nodded.

"They must have. How about a picnic?"

Eager to move on, Crowley turned the topic back to lunch. Aziraphale quickly picked up on the obvious end to the discussion and nodded. He rose to his feet in a fluid motion, depositing his tea on the coffee table, and Crowley followed him as he pottered into the kitchen and began looking through their cupboards. They ignored the fact it was raining outside; the pitter patter of raindrops soothing, a light mist coming in through the open window. The trees around the little cabin rustled with the breeze and birds sang some way in the distance. In the living room, the fire crackled away, strong and warm, an attempt to chase away the ever present chill in Crowley's bones. He leaned back against the door frame and simply watched as Aziraphale studied every cupboard and every drawer. Out of seemingly nowhere, he pulled out a large, vintage style picnic basket with a gleeful look, complete with a little matching set of plates, cups and cutlery; floral and dainty. Then came a bottle of rosé; pink and bubbling. His lips curled heavenward in a smile, his eyes soft as he rambled on; "oh, how about those little finger sandwiches? They're very cute. And, oh! I know where we could go; have you ever been to the 'fairy pools' in Scotland? I've been once, it's quite adorable. I'll bring an umbrella with us and it'll be most peaceful."

Crowley nodded along absently. 

_Whether you know it or not, you love that angel, don't you?_

The fairy pools, dubbed by the humans around, were, in fact, rather cute. Clear water and rushing waterfalls surrounded them, mist rolling off the mountains nearby, and with the light drizzle (it was once a storm, but with a little angelic miracle it lightened to a soothing drizzle) there were no humans around to disturb them. Aziraphale produced a tartan blanket from somewhere and spread it out along the ground in front of one such fairy pool, and they sat down, hip-to-hip. Aziraphale's umbrella was propped up to shield them from the drizzle and the angel dished out their lunch; little triangle sandwiches, a small handful of raspberries, strawberries and blueberries, and a flute of rosé each. The glasses clicked together in a cheers and Aziraphale was happy to watch the flow of water in front of them while they ate.

While Crowley didn't favour human food, he did favour the wine and whatever made Aziraphale happy. He nibbled on the sandwiches and dropped the little berries into his mouth, and when it got a little cold and the rosé did little to warm him, Aziraphale said not a word when he inched closer to him, for the angel simply radiated warmth at all times. 

"This seems like a very you place," Crowley commented, watching the little stream ahead. Aziraphale hummed and set his rosé down.

"I do like it," he replied with a small smile and a nod. "I find it relaxing. When there isn't anyone around, it's very nice to just sit here and take it in. It's also nice with the rain, I think - it sounds very... relaxing."

Crowley hummed in agreement. "I guess so. Angel -" he sighed heavily, shifting on the spot and fiddling with the blanket beneath them. "I need to tell you something."

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side curiously, eyebrows raised. "What is it? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he responded with a dismissive wave. "I just..." 

As he tried to find the courage to voice his thoughts, he was interrupted. There was a sudden crack of thunder, the clouds drawing closer, growing suddenly thick and dark and heavy. The little drizzle turned quickly to a downpour, suddenly enough that their glasses of rosé shattered and spilled and their dishes rolled away from them. In a flash of lightning, two people appeared and began to stalk forwards. There was no time wasted; no introductions, no explanations, no orders. The two people; one a pale skinned, beady eyed man with wispy hair and an unsettling grin, and the other a tall, grim-faced, dark skinned man. Both wore well tailored suits, and they did not say a word as they stomped up to Aziraphale and Crowley, unbothered by the growing storm. 

Zachariah, the older looking guy, went for Aziraphale. The other man, whom Crowley recognised as Uriel, came towards him. He reached out and as Crowley scrambled to his feet, he grabbed onto his arms and hauled him up with a sudden display of strength.

"What is the meaning of this?" Gasped Aziraphale, scrambling away from Zachariah. "Crowley? Crowley, are you okay? Let him go!"

Uriel did not, in fact, let Crowley go. If anything, his grip tightened, pulling his arms behind his back while Crowley yanked and thrashed, hissing out obscene curses. 

"We've had our time to get over that little stunt of yours," said Zachariah, looking utterly disgusted in the both of them. "And it was just a stunt, wasn't it? Now, as nice as it has been to chat with you both, I'm afraid there's no time to waste. An antichrist to get, a fate to fulfil; you understand." He looked at them with a smug smile, and then a blade slid into his hand; celestial alloy singing. Crowley's thrashing picked up; his legs kicked back against Uriel, his nails digging into his skin. Aziraphale was backing up with his hands up, a frightened smile on his lips. 

"Now, I'm sure there's no need for this," he said. "We can just... talk this out, surely."

"After your little stunt?" He asked, snorting. "You've ran out of chances." His eyes turned to glare at Crowley, and his free hand dipped into his pocket. He wandered over to Crowley, then, and he smiled sadistically. "You'd be surprised how eager demons will turn on one another," he commented. His hand pulled out a container that held salt and Crowley eyed it warily. He didn't say a word, his heart pounding hard enough that Uriel surely could feel it, hear it. Zachariah undid the cap on the bottle, held it closer, inched it towards his face. 

Crowley leaned back against Uriel and kicked out, feet landing against his chest and kicking him back. "Aziraphale, _go_!" He barked, staring at his stock-still friend, his eyes wide and hands hovering up uncertainly. The angel looked on, his mouth moving, and then his chance to spread his wings and go was gone. As Uriel grew fed up of Crowley's thrashing and returned the fight, Zachariah was already on his feet, hand tight on his blade and moving quickly to Aziraphale.

Crowley, much like Lucifer had said, was not a fighter. Would one expect the former angel of healing to be a fighter?

He did not enjoy throwing himself into the throes of violence, and his fighting was, perhaps, a little rusty. Especially of that compared to Uriel, who seemed like Heaven's perfectly trained soldier, for he easily tossed Crowley across the ground like a ragdoll and advanced with one hand curled into a fist, iron rings mocking, and the other pulling free a bottle from his pockets. Holy water sloshed in it and Crowley knew he wouldn't be able to dodge it this time around, unable to grab Aziraphale and so suddenly swap forms.

Speaking of the angel, he was surprising Crowley. He didn't think Aziraphale necessarily enjoyed fighting, either, but it seemed nonetheless that he knew how to actually fight - perhaps better than Crowley, too. For angels had weapons and armies and demons had bloodlust and rage. He ducked and dodged Zachariah's blade, his suit flaring out around him. Meanwhile, Crowley hissed and lashed blindly out at the angel in front of him, trying rather for the intimidation of gnashing fangs and serpentine eyes. His wings spread out, arching high up over him, feathers flared and puffed out. Uriel reacted in a much similar way, his own wings returning the intimidation tactic, pristine feathers glaring from the sunlight. 

His hand tore the cap off his holy water and thrust it forwards at the same time as Aziraphale let out some horrific, pained noise. Crowley's arms threw up to cover his face, head ducking down, but his eyes immediately sought out Aziraphale. The angel was grasping at a rock to hold himself up, his other hand clutching the wound in his stomach that sluggishly oozed golden blood. 

Holy water burned through Crowley's clothes, seeped right down into his skin and burned, and a kick to his side crumpled him to the floor. 

The other angels had their surprise entrance on their side, the upper hand against them, and as Uriel used one foot to pin him down onto the rocky floor beneath, Crowley realised this outcome was looking extremely grim if they didn't act now. Holy water splashed down the side of his face in white hot, burning streaks, and Uriel's foot pushed down with enough pressure his ribs groaned in protest. Aziraphale was gasping in exertion and pain, slowing down, and Crowley acted fast.

His form shrunk, stretching out into a snake, slithering from Uriel's grasp. He hadn't been in this form for a while, but he grew used to it quickly. He lashed out, wrapped himself tightly around the angel's throat and then bit down, fangs seeping in. When Uriel reached up to grab him, he dropped off his neck, forced himself quicker into his human form than he should do, and launched for Aziraphale. Zachariah was boring down on him, flashing his blade, and Aziraphale looked too pale in the face, wheezing. Crowley clamed one hand on the burning side of his face, spread his wings and curled one hand in Aziraphale's suit as soon as he was close enough to do so. With a mighty thrust of his wings, Crowley forced them into the sky and away from the angels.

"I can fly," spluttered Aziraphale, clinging closely to Crowley. "Don't worry about - about carrying me-"

"Shut up and hold on," snapped Crowley through gritted teeth. He hadn't gotten a good look at the wound in his stomach, but he wasn't about to let Aziraphale fly on blood loss. At the very least, Crowley could push through the pain of holy water and his aching limbs, bones grinding against one another, thrust into a human form too quickly. Plus, there was no time to stop; Zachariah and Uriel could be immediately behind them.

Aziraphale didn't respond to him, and Crowley wasn't sure if that was a necessarily good or bad thing. He didn't dwell on it for now, forcing his wings to carry him out of Scotland, out across Iceland. 

He didn't know where to go. The angels would be able to reach them anywhere; in the bookshop in London or in Crowley's flat. They'd find them in their little cabin, and they couldn't go near Adam.

_It's warding. It won't be a problem because we've invited you here, but it is for everything else._

Could he go to the Winchester's bunker? The warding there was intense. They had worked together to find the antichrist and avert Armageddon. Surely their truce would extend here, even if it was simply to offer Aziraphale some shelter. Crowley could find somewhere else if they didn't want him there. 

With a half-hearted, desperate plan in mind, Crowley flew. His wings hurt from the strain he forced upon them to take him farther away, to take him back to Kansas.

His landing was not what one may consider 'smooth'. He all but crashed onto the floor, turning quickly onto his back and holding Aziraphale above him, his back and wings taking the brunt of the force. Trees splintered and snapped beneath him, dirt and stones getting thrown up around him. His suit was, no doubt, ruined. 

No time to dwell on it. He was already hauling himself up, throwing Aziraphale's arm around his shoulders and dragging him through the thick undergrowth.

"Crowley," spluttered the angel, "they're coming - let-let me go. I'm slowing you down." He tried to shrug himself off Crowley, and the demon simply held on tighter.

"Shut up, idiot," he hissed. "I'm not leaving you to get gutted. Now, hurry up."

To his credit, Aziraphale did try his best to run alongside him. They staggered over tree roots, pushing through thick bushes and ducking under tree branches. Crowley's legs ached, working through force rather than naturally. He did so hate the period after transforming into his serpentine form, even for such a short period of time. He tried not to think about what the distant thunder, growing threateningly closer, indicated. It didn't matter.

There. The bunker was right there. The Impala wasn't.

If it wouldn't have brought more unwanted attention, Crowley would have prayed. Someone had to still be in; Dean must have just gone out for groceries, perhaps. Sam or Castiel had to be in. They had to, or else they'd come back to scorched wing prints and a pile of ash on their doorsteps.

Crowley all but threw himself at the door. It brought forth a pained grunt from the both of them, but he pushed; thumping his fists rapidly on the door. The thunder rolled closer. The wind picked up with the heavy beats of large wings. Crowley's fist ached with the force that he pounded on the door. Aziraphale slumped beside him.

The door opened to Castiel's concerned face. He startled at Crowley and Aziraphale, whom he certainly hadn't been expecting, and Crowley smiled tightly. 

"We need help," he said, a silent plea. Castiel seemed to take in the deep burn splattered across one side of his face, the shining wound in Aziraphale's stomach, and then he pulled them in and slammed the door closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify with the main three archangels and their situations with Heaven;  
> Michael is as the Good Omens and SPN version. Corrupt and sly and not very nice.  
> There are two Gabriels. Good Omens version and SPN version; SPN version is the original. Upon the fallout with Lucifer in the Beginning and the fall of Raphael, Gabriel ran away from Heaven and keeps to himself. Because Lucifer (and Raphael) had already Fallen, they couldn't afford to continue to lose any more archangels. Gabriel now has a replacement; he is not an original archangel and therefore not as strong, but stronger than the likes of Castiel. Everyone (save for Lucifer, Michael, and Raphael and Castiel) believe this Gabriel to be the original.  
> Raphael Fell shortly after Lucifer. For appearance sake, however, they could not continue to reveal that he had been cast out; instead, it is said that Raphael died by getting Lucifer into his cage in Hell. 
> 
> Of course, there are the likes of Uriel, Jophiel, Azrael, Zachariah, Gadreel, and many, many more noteable angels, but they will come into play later.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please feel free to leave a kudos or a comment; I greatly appreciate it and I'd love your feedback and opinions for how this has started!  
> Also; are chapter summaries a good thing? I usually don't do that, but if people like seeing a basis of what's going on, I'll keep doing them.  
> You can find me on Tumblr @veteranklaus.


	2. Your Soul Will Capture Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel takes in a hurt demon and angel and they talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

They all but tumbled into the bunker, clumsy limbs tumbling over one another. Castiel focused first on closing and locking the heavy bunker door, completing the warding that kept them safe inside, and only after that did he turn to them. He went to Aziraphale's other side and between the two of them, they managed to get him downstairs (skirting the rug that hid the devil's trap beneath it) and Castiel led the way into the bunker, drips of pure gold staining the floor behind Aziraphale. 

Castiel brought them into the nearest bedroom, and they lowered Aziraphale onto the bed. The angel's face was pinched and tight with pain, skin pale, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face. 

"What happened?" Asked Castiel, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the bleeding wound and Crowley's state. Crowley steadied himself against the wall, his eyes closed as he caught his breath. 

"Heaven," Crowley simply responded. "Guess they're fed up with waiting for us. Interrupted our lunch and everything." He sneered, as if the fact that they hadn't finished their lunch was the worst part of it, and not the fact that Aziraphale was bleeding out on the bed in front of him, that his own skin was burnt and festering. "Zachariah attacked Aziraphale, Uriel went for me."

It occurred, then, that Crowley had never seen Aziraphale hurt. The angel was always non-confrontational, keeping himself safe from harm. And here he was, his face screwed up, teeth grinding together, and Crowley couldn't do a damn thing other than put pressure on the wound and cause him more pain. 

"Can you - can you help him?" He asked, spinning to Castiel. "You need to heal him, you need to." 

Castiel looked back down at Aziraphale and then he nodded and inched closer. He stood by the edge of the bed and his hands drifted out over Aziraphale's, clutched over the wound. His hand gave off a heavenly glow that fizzed and flickered unpromisingly. Crowley watched, intent and nauseous, and although the effort obviously strained him, Crowley watched as Aziraphale's face smoothed out and the wound began to knit itself back together until, finally, there wasn't a single trace left, his skin smooth and complete. Castiel slumped a little, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, and Crowley too slumped in relief. Aziraphale seemed to simply be asleep, no doubt exhausted. Crowley did the best he could for the angel and, with a small click of his fingers, the blood and the tears in his clothes disappeared. Had he been able to heal him, he would have done so on the way there, however the fact was that demons could not heal angels, and he was utterly helpless in that case.

"This just happened?" Asked Castiel, eyes flicking out of the bedroom. He eyed the side of Crowley's face, where his skin was red and raw and painful, tinted with smudged black blood. It sung with pain each time he spoke, each time his jaw and his cheeks moved, and he simply swallowed it down. Castiel extended his hand towards Crowley, a silent offer, and Crowley ducked out of reach.

"You're exhausted," he dismissed, waving a hand. "Heaven cut you off?" He asked, perhaps a little brash and invasive. It did, however, succeed in making Castiel back off a little.

"Yes," he admitted shamefully. "I... can in a while," he offered. Castiel, no doubt, was ashamed and embarrassed to admit that he had been cut off from Heaven; to have his powers slowly weakened until he might be hardly more than a principality, hardly more than a human. At least, thought Crowley, he had not Fell.

"Don't bother," insisted Crowley. "I just... I didn't know where else to go. But Dean mentioned the warding and I... I needed to keep him safe," he said, looking at Aziraphale. His gut twisted and he reached a hand out to brush it over his, as if reassuring him he was, in fact, there and alive. He hadn't had a moment to really process what happened, how close he had come to losing Aziraphale.

"Those - what are those _blades_ everyone has?" Crowley asked, feeling thoroughly like an elderly human working with technology. Castiel raised an eyebrow. 

"What blades?" He asked.

"You have one," he said, gesturing to his coat sleeve. "It seems like every angel these days has one, and what kind of angel has a weapon made to hurt other angels?" He asked, shaking his head disapprovingly. Once, such an idea would have been blasphemous. Yes, angels had been given their own weapons to protect themselves, but to mass produce weapons that seemed to have the intention to be able to harm other angels? Outrageous.

Castiel fetched his blade. He held it out in an offer and Crowley reached out to pluck it from his grasp, turning it around and scrutinising it. The ones he had seen all seemed to be an identical copy of Castiel's; sleek and sharp, and it hurt to simply hold. He was quick to hold it out to Castiel and then shake the heat from his hands with a hiss. 

"Can I... can I offer you some coffee?" Asked Castiel, hesitant and awkward, and Crowley let out a small laugh. Nonetheless, he entertained the angel and nodded.

"I won't lie. That'd be bloody lovely right about now." Although he was reluctant to leave Aziraphale, the bedroom he was in was the closest one to the rest of the bunker and Aziraphale was comfortable, warm and unhurt. Crowley decided that, in that moment, he could indulge in a cup of tea. 

He and Castiel left quietly, and Crowley lagged a little behind. His joints groaned in protest, his muscles stiff and ache-y, and his face was constantly throbbing right down to his core. He was eager to collapse into one of the chairs around the large meeting table, leaning onto it and watching Castiel's back as he fussed around in the kitchen.

"Where's the humans?" He asked conversationally. He propped his chin up on his arms, inching one hand up to rub his eyes. His glasses had gotten lost in the scuffle in Scotland, probably smashed against some rock, and he felt self conscious with his serpentine eyes on show. He might as well have been sitting at the table as a snake. 

"Sam and Dean left just before you arrived," he said, turning to glance at him over his shoulder. "They went out for groceries, I believe. We're a little low on food. They shouldn't be long." His eyes flicked to the clock. "Perhaps an hour at most, if they get caught up with something."

Crowley hummed in acknowledgement. When Castiel wandered over and slid a cup of tea over to him, he accepted it gratefully. He eyed it suspiciously, for it held a green tint, with herbs floating in it. All he was craving was a simple PG tips cuppa, if anything.

"It's valerian root," said Castiel, sliding into a seat opposite him. "It's a natural pain relief. I thought you might need it."

Crowley snorted slightly. "You're right about that," he muttered. He groaned, stretching his legs out under the table. Satisfied with his answer, he hugged the tea between his hands and tentatively sipped at it. Although it was bitter and, he thought, could certainly do with some milk and sugar. Nonetheless, he simply hoped that it would work its natural pain relief immediately and as good as a bag full of morphine. 

"Can I ask you a question?" Castiel spoke up after a moment of tense silence. Crowley smirked. 

"You just did."

Castiel's cheeks flushed ever so slightly and he opened his mouth to stammer something out. Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "What is it?"

Castiel took a moment to gather himself, clearing his throat and clasping his hands on his lap. "Two weeks ago, Lucifer called you _brother,_ " he stated. "What did he mean by that?"

Crowley's stomach twisted. "Ah," he said. He watched a herb twirl in the cup, almost hypnotizingly. "Well, yes. That's a good question." He took a long moment to sip his tea, and Castiel looked as if he had had this kind of response many times before when asked a sketchy question. Eventually, Crowley set his tea back down on the table. "I wasn't... created in Hell. I Fell. I suppose, in some way, I am Lucifer's brother. Distantly." He shrugged half heartedly and looked away. Castiel sat up a little straighter, leaning forwards.

"You Fell?" He echoed. Crowley's eyes snapped back to him, hardening in a cold glare.

"Yes, I Fell. Does that sate your curiosity, feathers?" He snapped. "Millennia ago."

Castiel at least had the decency to look a little ashamed for asking, his eyes flicking down to his lap. "I'm sorry," he uttered. "If you don't mind me asking..."

"I do, actually," Crowley interrupted. "And I know what you're going to ask. No, I don't remember anything before the Fall." The lie slid off his tongue like butter, like a snake shedding its skin. Castiel didn't press but he held his gaze, their eyes locked together. Castiel didn't believe him. Nonetheless, he nodded and they lapsed into silence once more. Crowley sipped his tea and looked back at the door to the room Aziraphale was in every other minute. Castiel retrieved the book he had been reading before Crowley had shown up with Aziraphale in tow, and at some point, Crowley's head slumped forwards, his eyes closing. 

_"You feel... distant. I don't like it."_

_Crowley peeled his eyes open. He was standing on a street of a little town built into a mountain and over a large, beautiful lake. The sun was setting, letting the sky explode in a blossom of fiery reds and oranges, fading away into purples and dark blues. The streets weren't overly busy, for the town seemed small, though many tourists seemed to be running around. There was someone playing a violin on the street corner, and Lucifer was standing right by his side, looking out over the lake._

_"I'm in a safe house at the moment," he said. Then he reconsidered his words. "Physically, I'm in a safe house at the moment. It's heavily warded."_

_Lucifer hummed. "Why would you need to be in a safe house?"_

_Crowley took a few steps forwards so he could lean against the wall in front of them, get a little closer to the lake. "I suppose you were right, earlier. You said you didn't like the feeling in the air. It seems Heaven's back on our case," he replied, sparing him a look. He wandered up to his side, and he had yet to look at him; favouring the beautiful scene playing out in front of them._

_"You aren't hurt, are you?" Lucifer asked, and though Crowley did not feel the pain here, he knew the burns from the holy water still marred his skin. Lucifer grimaced and shook his head._ _"Heaven has changed, and obviously not for the better," he muttered. He turned forwards again. "You should come to me. I can heal that."_

_"It seems so," Crowley agreed absently. He pushed off the wall and looked around. "Where are we now?"_

_"Halstatt, Austria. It's a nice little town," Lucifer answered. "Can I interest you in a walk? They serve amazing Gugelhupf here; it's a cake."_

_Crowley shrugged. He did not think he would be able to wake himself up, and he wasn't sure he wanted to; for there would be pain and danger when he awoke. "Sure," he said, and followed Lucifer down the street._

_"Humans are so... complex," Lucifer said, one leg crossed over the other. He held a fork in the tip of his fingers, a piece of powdered Gugelhupf stabbed on the end of it, and he held the fork out to Crowley with an eyebrow raised. When Crowley didn't move, he jabbed it closer to his face. "Try it. I'm telling you, it's amazing."_

_Relenting, Crowley leaned forwards and plucked the piece of cake off the fork with his teeth. Indeed, the cake was good; sweet on his tongue and soft on his teeth, crumbling just right, with sweet powdered icing and a nice edge of chocolate. Lucifer raised his eyebrows once more and Crowley nodded._

_"It's good."_

_"See!" He stabbed the fork into the cake, and then he leaned forwards on the table. "Now, if I had known humans could create things like this, I might not have rebelled so hard."_

_The statement, although sad in some way, made Crowley laugh. "The only thing they're good for," he joked, and he turned his attention to the cocoa in his hands; topped with whipped cream and melting marshmallows, little flakes of chocolate on top of it all. Utterly delicious. Across from him, Lucifer hummed happily._

_"You know, I've done some thinking," he said. He set the fork down on his plate. Crowley raised an eyebrow. "I think you should come with me. We could go find Gabriel, huh?"_

_Crowley tipped his head to the side. "What?"_

_"You and I; let's leave. Fuck Heaven; they won't hurt you again if you're with me. We can go and find Gabriel - we both know that piss poor excuse of an archangel is not the real Gabriel - and we could make Heaven what it once was."_

_Crowley had not known what to expect, but it was not that. "I... what?"_

_Lucifer sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't really have a plan; maybe I need to keep learning, first. Ignore what I just said." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and picked his fork back up and resumed eating as if he hadn't just clued Crowley into a revolt on Heaven. He did, however, mull over the thought of Gabriel. If what Lucifer said was true, then it implied that Gabriel was not, in fact, dead, nor Fallen._

_"What are you doing?" Crowley asked. He took a sip of his cocoa, wary eyes watching Lucifer, who shrugged._

_"Travelling, at the moment. I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to do that. I've been to Italy, Austria, France, Germany, Poland, Spain, Portugal, Bulgaria, Ukraine, Turkey - a lot of places. I'm going to Asia next, I think." Crowley hummed and nodded in acknowledgement._ _"Have you been around? It's fascinating, the culture differences in such small countries. You should come with me, Raphael. You'd love the architecture, I think."_

 _"Don't call me that, Lucifer," Crowley muttered half heartedly. The name stirred things in him; things he did not want to deal with, things he had been content with shoving down for millennia after millennia._ _"I'm quite busy at the moment."_

_"Avoiding Heaven and all," Lucifer commented lightly. "Very well. And I'm sorry; you're just... you're still my little brother, Raphael," he murmured, his eyes distant with memories. Crowley pressed his lips together and regarded the setting sun._

_"We're the same age," he commented instead. Lucifer laughed._

_"Technically, yes. But it feels like you should be the little brother. Always so naïve, so innocent, little Raphael."_

_"Shut up," Crowley grumbled. "That time's gone."_

_"You're so eager to move from the past," Lucifer chastised. He set his fork down and stood up, walked over to Crowley and set his hands on his shoulders. The seat beneath him disappeared, as did the town around him. Instead, he was staring HH-222 in its face, being devoured by the space and the stars and the gases around them. He could not see Lucifer, but he could feel his presence beside him, hear him still._

_"You made this," he murmured. He felt Lucifer's hands glide over Crowley's, if they were to have physical forms in this very moment. "How long did it take you, again?"_

_Crowley's throat felt tight. "Four years," he replied, his voice lost to the volatile space around them. Lucifer heard him nonetheless._

_"Only four years to create such a thing. And this-" the space twisted, morphed, turned into RAFGL 2688, a large, blinding nebula that stretched out wide around them. It glittered in various colours that the human eye couldn't properly catch, unable to see it as Raphael had created it. "How about this?"_

_"Twenty-three," Crowley said._

_"And this? Or this one? There's this one, too. I remember you being so proud of this one. You spent so long on this one." He cycled through constellation after nebula after galaxy, showcasing his creations in a way that Crowley had not been able to see like this for millennia. It made his throat tight, his lungs hurt, his eyes stream, and when they landed in an alleyway on Earth, back in Hastatt, Austria, Crowley's knees buckled beneath him, Lucifer caught him and they both lowered to the ground. Lucifer held him in a crushing embrace._

_"They took that from you. They took that all from you, brother. They took it all from you in such a savage, cruel way, Raphael, and I am so sorry."_

_Raphael looked up at the stars above him, the ones he had set alight, and he sobbed._

"Want to explain why there's a demon asleep at our table?" 

"Well, he was hurt. Him and Aziraphale. They showed up after you left, and they were hurt... I believe Aziraphale might have died should Crowley have not brought him here. He's still asleep in one of the bedrooms. I managed to heal him, but not yet Crowley."

Footsteps came closer and Crowley tried not to move away when Dean's breath ghosted the side of his face as he scrutinised the wounds on his face. He stayed still, feigning sleep for a little longer. Dean hissed out a breath. 

"Nasty stuff," he commented. "He say what happened?"

"He mentioned Zachariah and Uriel," Castiel said. "Said they tried to kill them both. He didn't know where else to go, but he remembered you saying this place was warded, so he came here."

Dean sighed. "Well, guess we just got to wait, huh? Can you heal that stuff?"

Castiel shifted awkwardly. "Healing Aziraphale… took a lot from me. I'm afraid I can't at the moment. I need more time-"

"Don't stress about it," said Crowley, lifting his head up to blink blearily at them. He stretched his arms up above his head and yawned. Everyone startled at his sudden 'awakening' and Crowley grinned despite himself. "Thanks for the tea," he said, looking at the cup he had been drinking from. He rose unsteadily to his feet, a tremendous groan falling from his lips. His legs protested any movement, his back aching something fierce, and he splayed a hand out on the table to catch himself. Sam raised an eyebrow at him, stepping to his side, hands hovering around him. 

"Maybe you should sit back down," he offered sheepishly. Crowley looked longingly at the chair that he vacated from. 

"How's Aziraphale?" He asked instead, turning to look at Castiel. There was a moment of silence as everyone awkwardly watched Crowley shuffle his way towards the bedroom, before Castiel finally answered.

"He's still asleep last time I checked on him," he replied. "Angel blades are capable of reaching an angel's true form, so he'll rest longer than he might seem to need after being healed."

Crowley's eyebrows furrowed. Not only were angels dolling out weapons capable of hurting one another, but capable of reaching further than their human forms, right down to their core and their Grace. It was, quite frankly, horrifying. Castiel looked somewhat guilty, too. 

"He will be fine, though. He just needs the rest," he assured him. "But I think you should sit down."

"I'm fine," Crowley grunted stubbornly, shooting the angel a glare. Castiel raised an eyebrow, unamused, and made a point of looking Crowley up and down. His eyes then flickered to Crowley's shoulders and his lips pressed together. 

"You'll need to fix your feathers - you won't be able to fly anywhere like that. You won't be able to reach them, either; let me do that, at least," he offered, and Crowley bristled. The angel was so damn insistent on helping him, and Crowley assumed that it was for his own conscience. Probably, he thought, some kind of fucked up angel, heavenly guilt, redemption thing. All angels seemed to have that. 

"Since when did demons have wings?" Dean asked curiously, watching Crowley. Crowley glared at him.

"Demons don't," he snapped. "Fallen angels do. Happy with that information? Whoop-de-doo, I sauntered my way out of there and vaguely downards. Fuck off." His wings pulled in closer behind his back, visible only to Castiel. He made a point of storming off towards Aziraphale's room, his shaky legs landing heavy on the ground. He felt a feather from his wing fall and drift to the ground, felt Castiel's eyes on the singed thing, and he closed the door behind him. 

Aziraphale was still on the bed, his suit clean but ruffled and wrinkled. His face, although smooth and peaceful, was eerily still. Crowley, for all many, many millennia of his existence and his and Aziraphale's friendship, had never seen the angel sleep.

" _I just don't find the pleasure in it. You miss a lot and you wake up confused and disorientated and feeling more tired than before you went to sleep."_ He had said. It seemed... wrong to see Aziraphale like this. He was always up and awake, cheerful and energetic and _fine._ Not quite and still and unconscious. Crowley meandered up to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. It creaked under his weight, dipping, and Aziraphale didn't move. 

Crowley's hand inched out, awkward and hesitant, and then settled back in his lap. 

"We're fucked, aren't we?" He muttered, and then let out a bitter snort. He dropped his head into his hands and let out a groan. Perhaps he should take up smoking - didn't that help humans with stress? He had smoked before, mainly during the eighteenth century to the early twentieth, when it seemed every human was doing it; all the way from the upper class to children. Aziraphale had both scolded and made fun of him for it, for they had had to run out of trouble once and Crowley's tobacco-polluted lungs had really not appreciated that run. Had it eased any stress he had dealt with then? Or perhaps he should seek out another group of 'enlightened' hippies and whatever artificial high they pumped themselves full of. Then again, that wouldn't necessarily help with stress in the long run; it'd just leave him vulnerable for any attack. 

He peered over his hands to gaze at Aziraphale again and he wondered when, exactly, he had begun to _like_ an angel. Then he scolded himself, for he didn't simply like just any angel, but Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was an exception to virtually anything in Crowley's books. 

He wasn't sure exactly how long he stayed sitting there, watching the steady rise and fall of Aziraphale's chest, but eventually there came a knock at the door and Sam peered his head in. He offered a sheepish smile to Crowley, who had long since cooled off since storming off, rather sitting slumped and half asleep. He was healing his own wounds, albeit rather slowly. The ache in his bones would linger for a while longer and there wasn't much he could do about that. Shapeshifting was a tricky and utter irritating business. He had made progress on smoothing some of his ruffled feathers from his fall, but like Castiel had said, he couldn't reach them all; too far behind his back for him to reach. He would simply wait for Aziraphale to wake up so he could straighten them instead. 

The remnants of holy water was a trickier thing. Yes, it was healing, but hardly much faster than a human might heal. Wounds from blessed weapons did not mix well with a damned being. He simply tried his best to ignore it. 

"Hey," said Sam. "I know, uh, supernatural beings don't necessarily need to eat, but... we're making dinner, if you'd like to eat. You could probably do with some food," he offered. Crowley wanted to tell him to fuck off once more, but the demon simply sighed, looked at Aziraphale who had yet to do much more than twitch, and then he nodded.

"I guess," he said, as if he was doing Sam a service by going with him. Nonetheless, the hunter smiled encouragingly at him and they both left Aziraphale to rest further, quiet footsteps bringing them back into the main room. Dean and Castiel were lounging by the table, Castiel still reading from an age-old book. Dean was sitting with an opened bottle of beer and a plate piled with potatoes, fries and pork. Sam's own plate was much more green; leafy and healthy. He seemed to have already made food for Crowley on the assumption that he would come with him. He slid the bowl of soup towards him and Crowley murmured a thanks. Castiel not-so-subtly eyed Crowley upon his return before he returned his attention to his book. 

Crowley stirred the spoon around in the soup in front of him before tentatively bringing it to his lips and taking a small sip of it. 

"So," Dean said, clearing his throat and leaning back in his chair. "Want to explain about your sudden arrival?"

Crowley rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm sure Feathers here already told you," he said, tipping his head towards Castiel. He took another small sip of soup before shrugging. "Heaven's pissed. When are they not."

"Zachariah's nothing new," said Dean, grim, and Crowley leaned in. 

"Oh?"

"Zachariah's been doing dirty work for Heaven for quite some time. So has Uriel," he said. His eyes glanced to a mournful looking Castiel, who nodded absently. 

"Oh, well. That's... nice to hear," Crowley quipped sarcastically. The soup was warm in his stomach, chasing away the ever present chill in Crowley's bones, and although he never really deigned to eat, he supposed that it wasn't too bad when he felt this drained. Dean snorted at that, then stabbed a potato on the end of his fork and stuffed it into his mouth. Sam turned his nose up to it, then turned to Crowley.

"Did that burn cream help? A couple of weeks ago?" He asked, eyes flicking to his hand. He held it up, eying the smooth, unmarred skin. His head tipped side to side thoughtfully, and then he shrugged.

"I guess so," he replied, then looked up. "Why?"

Sam stood up, swallowing down some lettuce, and he fetched a first aid kit and brought it back to his table. He opened it up, shuffled to Crowley's side, and smiled non-threateningly as Crowley eyed him. He did trust the man enough to cater to the wound, for he had already done it once before and it would be completely unpredicted if he suddenly turned around and decided to throw some salt down his throat. The idea, nonetheless, made him shudder and swallow reflexively. 

"Can I?" He asked. "It doesn't look like it's healing."

Crowley slumped back in his chair, shrugging. "It'll heal eventually, but if it gets your knickers out of its twist, have at it."

Sam responded with an approving smile. He pulled out a tube of burn cream, twisting it open. He squeezed some out onto his hand and then reached out to gently smear it across his cheek and his jaw and where the water had ran down his neck. Crowley clenched his jaw against the way it stung, but he slouched as if receiving some spa treatment. 

"Do you think Zachariah and Uriel will continue to come after you two?" He asked. Crowley peeled his eyes open and then shrugged. 

"Well, I'd like to say no," he snorted. "But I doubt that. They seemed pretty intent on getting rid of us." His shoulders slumped in defeat and he clasped his hands together on his lap. He hissed when Sam brushed over a particularly tender part of his skin and Sam was quick to apologise. He put the lid back on the cream, put away the first aid kit, and then he washed his hands and returned to his dinner. Crowley entertained his soup once more, stirring it around in his bowl and having some more. He leaned forwards on the table. 

"So, what about you lot?" He asked. "Zachariah didn't seem too happy to see you, back in Armageddon. What's his problem with you?"

They all exchanged a look, avoiding Crowley for a moment. Dean sighed, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat. "He doesn't like Castiel leaving Heaven," he responded. "And we refused to do what he wanted. He's not overly happy about that. He's been on us for a while. Guess he got side tracked with the antichrist, though," he shrugged nonchalantly. He stabbed his fork into a piece of pork and washed it down with beer, and Crowley cringed. 

A door closed behind them and everyone turned to watch Aziraphale walk in, looking rather confused and dazed, his hands smoothing his suit out. He did relax upon seeing Crowley, however, and he inched a little closer.

"Uh... hello. I'm afraid I'm a little... confused," he said. Crowley snorted, rolling his eyes, but his exasperation was more from relief and fondness. Aziraphale didn't seem hurt at all, walking without a hitch. His eyes fell onto Crowley and his marred skin, and they widened rather comically.

"Oh!" He gasped. "The angels! Are you alright? They didn't hurt you bad, did they?" He asked, scurrying up to his side and tilting Crowley's head this way and that, scrutinising him. Crowley swatted at his hands but let him fuss and fret, making no real move to push him away. He'd take a mother hen Aziraphale than a quiet, unmoving Aziraphale.

"I'm fine, Angel," he replied. Aziraphale gave him a look.

"Fine, my ass. You're filthy! Does it hurt?" Crowley received another warning look as he moved to push Aziraphale's hands away, so he settled back down in the chair. 

"No, it doesn't," he lied, waving him off. "You're the one that got stabbed, Aziraphale. You're damn lucky Castiel was in," he told him, looking gratefully to the angel sitting at the table. Aziraphale smiled at him.

"I'm guessing you healed me," he said, patting himself down, "for I certainly don't feel like I've been stabbed. Thank you very much. I do appreciate it," he nodded, his hands fumbling with the hem of his suit. "We were in quite a... pickle. Thank you for helping us."

"Crowley's said what happened," Sam said with a small nod. He gestured to the empty chair next to Crowley, and Aziraphale slid into it. His eyes turned to Dean and they seemed to have a silent conversation with their eyes. Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean deadpanned. Sam leaned forwards and Dean rolled his eyes, huffed out a breath. Sam jerked his head towards him and Aziraphale, and Dean shook his head. Sam glared at him and Dean glared back, but eventually, he slumped and waved a hand dismissively. Sam smiled and nodded.

"Well, if you need a place to stay for a couple of days, I can't think of somewhere safer than here," he offered. Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, eyebrows raised. As much as he longed to return to their little cabin by themselves, he knew that Zachariah and Uriel would be on them as soon as they stepped outside the bunker. 

"I think we would appreciate that very much," Aziraphale said, nudging Crowley before he could refuse the offer. "I'm afraid the angels would be waiting for us... if you'd let us stay, we'd be extremely grateful."

"Aye," said Crowley. Aziraphale gave him yet another look for his lacklustre response, but nonetheless, Sam and Dean nodded. Sam stood up, gesturing to the corridor Aziraphale had come from.

"We have plenty of spare rooms," he said. Aziraphale waved his hand.

"We'll only be needing one," he smiled. Sam raised his eyebrows and Crowley's cheeks flushed as he resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. When Aziraphale noticed he must have said something slightly awkward, he continued. "Only Crowley sleeps, after all," he said. "I don't need to, but Crowley enjoys it."

Sam let out a little "ah", nodding in understanding. "Fair enough," he responded. "But if you do want to rest yourself, just pick a bed and fall in it."

Aziraphale smiled at him and nodded. "Thank you. Really, we do appreciate it," he insisted. Sam led them to one room, nudging open the door.

"Don't worry about it. We helped one another out, huh?" He offered, and Aziraphale nodded.

"Indeed."

"If you're hungry, we've got plenty of food we can heat up for you? It might help you regain your strength."

"Oh, that'd be magnificent-"

"We need to talk for a minute," said Crowley, grabbing Aziraphale's arms and tugging him into the room. He offered a chaste smile to Sam. "Be out in a flash," he said, then closed the door. He heard Sam hesitate on the other side before returning to table. Aziraphale was gathering himself, smoothing out his suit once more.

"What's the matter Crowley?" He asked, and he urged Crowley over to the bed. He didn't hesitate to slump onto it, nudging Aziraphale down with him.

"Are you sure about staying with them?" He asked, eying the door. Aziraphale scoffed.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, my dear," he said. "Of course I do. I can't think of any other place, besides perhaps Hell, that they won't be able to find us in. And I don't rather fancy going to Hell again. I believe this is the safest place for us. Now, unless you're going to miracle it clean, take your jacket off." He helped Crowley shrug his still dirty suit jacket off, folding it and setting it aside. He shook his head disapprovingly, tutting. "No more talk of strutting out of here, Crowley. Have you gotten any rest? Look at your wings!"

Crowley sighed, rolling his aching shoulders. "I can't reach all of it," he said, not so subtle. "I fell on my back."

Aziraphale pursed his lips and then nodded. He gestured around them. "Manifest them here, then. I'll sort them out," he offered, and Crowley hesitated only a moment before giving in. Aziraphale stepped out of his way and his wings, which had previously been hidden on another plane of reality, was thrust into this one. He turned around so that he was sitting with his back to Aziraphale, and his wings unfurled from their tight position tucked against his back. Aziraphale let out a small sigh at the sight of ruffled, dirty and bent feathers, little clumps of dirt and leaves stuck in them. 

"Hard landing?" He asked absently, and Crowley hummed.

"Ah, you could say that," he muttered. Aziraphale reached out with gentle hands, careful fingertips rearranging the feathers back into place, smoothing those out on the marginal covert, pressing them back down on place. His fingertips plucked little pieces of leaves and dirt that entangled with his feathers, flicking them into the small trashcan in the room. 

"It doesn't hurt, does it?" He asked, his voice low and soft by his ear. Crowley, whose eyes had slid shut at the relaxing motion of Aziraphale's gentle hands, hummed in response. Then he remembered words existed and he shook his head.

"No. It's fine."

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement and continued to sort the feathers. There was a comfortable silence between them, and Crowley all but slumped back against Aziraphale much alike a purring cat. Aziraphale said nothing, and from the way Crowley sat, he couldn't see the curve in his lips.

"You have quite large wings," the angel commented. "I never realised that before."

Crowley's lips curled up into an amused smirk. "Oh? I do?"

Aziraphale snorted. "Yes, you do. I think they're larger than mine. I wonder how large Castiel's are," he mused, and Crowley shrugged. His wing shuddered beneath Aziraphale's hand, feathers fluffing out, and Aziraphale tutted but continued to smooth them out into their place. He spread his wings a little wider, having to curl them inwards ever so slightly to fit them in the room, and Aziraphale let out a breath.

"I truly don't think I've seen an angel with wings like yours."

"That's because I'm not an angel, Aziraphale."

"You were."

Crowley closed his eyes. "Not anymore."

"I think they're rather beautiful."

Crowley's lips curled downwards. "They're burnt," he muttered tensely, as if speaking of their condition was shameful and gross.

"They're beautiful."

Crowley swallowed and stared at the tips of his wings that curled inwards. Singed black, and it had taken years for the smell of fire and soot and ash to leave the intricacies of his feathers. It had taken a long while for Crowley to accept their new appearance, too. If wings were a direct connection to ones true form, what did his say about him? That he was Hellish and damned, rejected and Fallen, dirty, evil, lowly. They were not _beautiful_ like Aziraphale's were; pristine and divine, a part of Heaven and holiness.

Aziraphale said nothing more and nor did Crowley. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, feel free to let me know by leaving a kudos or a comment; I love hearing all your feedback! I'd love to hear your opinions of how this is going, and if there's anything you'd like to see!  
> Have any questions concerning the story? I'll do my best to answer.  
> Also, titles are taken from the song Ruby by Twenty One Pilots - totally recommend you listen to it. It gives me a lot of Fallen Angel!Crowley vibes and lovey ineffable husband vibes


	3. Your Great Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the end project of listening to a lot of sad songs and a lot of sad love songs. Also the result of getting into the mindset of a grieving, furious fallen angel.  
> Enjoy 1900 words of Lucifer and Crowley, I got a bit carried away whoops.

_"What the Hell happened to you?"_

_"That's rather rude of you to ask," said Lucifer, and then a laugh rasped out of his throat, rough and scratchy. Raphael grimaced._

_"Can you blame me?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow. Lucifer pointed at him._

_"Well, you got me there," he snorted. "Don't worry about it. It doesn't hurt. I tried to find Gabriel. Son of a bitch is sneaky, however. Took a little outta me."_

_Raphael hummed, and then he looked around. They were on a long boat, with Lucifer standing at one end and Raphael at the other. It was rather dark; clouds and mist all but blocking out any moonlight around. With the amount of mist and fog around them, rolling off the large, towering mountains, it seemed as if they were floating on clouds._

_"Where are we now?" He asked, and Lucifer hummed._

_"Li River, China," he answered. "I saw the Wall earlier. You were right; you could have built a better one."_

_Raphael laughed lightly at that, and then he turned to look ahead of them. "Why do you keep bringing me to these places?" He asked, curiosity burning high._

_"Why shouldn't I?" Lucifer replied. "It's quite beautiful, isn't it? Plus, I want to talk to you. It seems like the easiest way to do so. You're asleep in your little safe house, no one knows. We get some nice private time together. Wine?" He held up a bottle with a little grin on his chapped lips, shaking it ever so slightly. It made Raphael's lips tilt upwards, too, and he turned to face Lucifer._

_"Eh, why not," he grinned. With a blink of his eyes, two wine glasses appeared in Lucifer's other hand. He poured some into one and then handed it off to Raphael, filling the other one for himself. The glasses clinked together and Raphael raised his to his lips. The boat rocked ever so slightly as Lucifer groaned and slid down onto one of the little benches on the boat. His elbows rested on his knees and he regarded Raphael with a glint in his eyes._

_"If you were Gabriel, where would you go?" He asked. Raphael raised an eyebrow._

_"You think any of us can understand what goes through Gabriel's mind?" He laughed. "Gabriel's as predictable as Mother Nature." He let out a sigh and placed his free hand upon his hips. "I would be inclined to say Earth, but... I'm not sure."_

_Lucifer bobbed his head ever so slightly, propping his chin up on his clasped hands. "He certainly is," he laughed. "I'm beginning to assume he's made himself a pocket dimension to stay in."_

_Raphael hummed. "It does seem like a very Gabriel thing to do."_

_"It does," Lucifer agreed._

_"Although, one might have thought that Armageddon would have brought him out. He never liked fighting."_

_Something crossed Lucifer's face; something tight and dark, and Lucifer glared down at the water around them. "Yes, you would have thought that... isn't that why he ran off?"_

_"From what I've heard, yeah."_

_Lucifer hummed in acknowledgement, and then he lapsed into thoughtful silence. Raphael didn't make to interrupt his thoughts, turning to regard the scenery._

_"You know, I've also been doing my own research into all the angels and such," Lucifer commented. "They've really done me dirty, haven't they?"_

_Raphael raised an eyebrow and Lucifer continued. "I'm not even sure if it's all Michael or if it's the humans saying that about me."_

_"Humans are like that," Raphael quipped. "So is Michael. They're both idiots."_

_Lucifer barked a sharp laugh. "You're right about that. You know what else I found out? They didn't say a single thing about you."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Well, one would think they'd publicise your Fall."_

_Raphael grimaced. His jaw locked and he looked away. "They couldn't afford to continue to lose archangels. You'd revolted, I Fell, Gabriel left. Too much of a bad impact and reputation for them."_

_"I would have thought Michael would have spread it like the plague," Lucifer mused. "Make everyone scared and take control."_

_He couldn't help but shudder at the thought. "The Almighty wouldn't let that happen," he said._

_Lucifer laughed, dark and bitter. "Oh, please," he said. "I thought you were smarter than that."_

_"She's cruel, not malicious," Raphael responded._

_Lucifer shook his head. "Oh, don't. Everything she's ever done is malicious. Where have you been since Creation?"_

_He snorted, then scrubbed a hand down his face and looked away. It seemed to grow darker, the mist rolling off the mountains suddenly thick like smoke, heavy, threatening. He could hardly see further than five feet around him. Lucifer was behind him, his presence intense and burning. He couldn't help but feel dread coil like a pit of serpents in his stomach._

_"She wasn't always," he murmured. Lucifer let out a bitter scoff._

_"She said She loved us. I don't know about you, Raphael, but what She's done since does not count as 'love'." Around them, the terrain shifted, morphing slowly like a nightmare. The mist around them became clouds and if not for Lucifer's presence, cold enough it burned hot, he might have frozen. Wind, violent and cold, buffeted against them. The clouds lapped up the mountain peak like waves by the shore, and he couldn't see anything below them. The glare hurt his eyes, blinding white all around them. Standing atop Everest, he suddenly felt very vulnerable._

_Lucifer pressed on. He stood right beside him, his hand, burning cold, settled on his shoulder, heavy and large and touching his core, the festering, damned grace boiling inside himself._

_"Remember when Heaven looked like this?" He asked. "Pure. Celestial. Not some human-inspired, sterile building. We sat among clouds and stars with Her, and now She won't even dare show Her face or speak for Herself. She preached love and forgiveness as if we would cease to exist without it. And then She spoke about plans all about suffering and pain, tests and unfairness. Where was Her love and mercy when She spoke about humans? And She dared us to love those mud monkeys more than Her? I loved Her, and you know what She did because of love?"_

_Flashes of memories that did not belong to him paralysed him. Confusion and terror almost crippled him and he felt the person in the memories burn alive as if it was himself. The first Fall ever._

_"And alright. I'll give you a chance. Perhaps I over stepped my boundaries," Lucifer offered, words purring off his tongue like a prowling tiger. "Maybe I deserved it. You shouldn't question the Almighty and I did it anyway. Got a bit Hellish with Her, if you will. I deserved to Fall, let's say. But what about you, brother?" His hands, settled on both his shoulders, nudged him forwards slightly, made him lean further off the edge of the mountain and gaze down upon the endless sky around them, below them. His voice got louder, seemed to echo in his bones, throughout his being. "Did you deserve it? You got curious. You asked Her what She really planned. Asked how could we possibly love something more than Her? You wanted an explanation, that's all. You discussed with me, a bit. And what did She do to you?"_

_Flashes of fire, damned and infernal, towering up from Hell to catch him, devour him. Perhaps, had he been able to see past the flames, this is what the sky looked like as he Fell. Lucifer's hands dipped from his shoulders and onto his wings, and he nudged them out from their position tucked against his back, spread them out wide beyond them in a similar stance to the one he might take should he be trying to intimidate someone, or if he were to go down to Heaven as an angel before humans and hold a message from God Herself, the very definition of celestial power and intent, of an angel of God. Behind him, Lucifer too stretched his own wings out, curled in ever so slightly so that he could catch a glimpse of the tips of the bones, his wings torn apart from Hell, no mercy._

_"I Fell," he said, quiet, the words whispered off his tongue and whisked away in the wind._

_"You Fell," Lucifer echoed. "Was it also not from the stars that you Fell? From your own creation, She damned you. She called up fire from Hell to take you. She called for Hell to take you and tear you apart. She burned grace out of you and sent you to eternal torment. She shattered your halo and burnt your wings into ash and boiled your divinity. You," his lips curled into a vicious snarl beside his ear, intensity churning and burning like the boiling pool of sulphur that greeted him in Hell, "did everything right and She turned you inside-out and everything you shouldn't be and you still. Have. Faith." His fingers hooked into him like claws. Sparks fell from his pointed teeth, and he burned like a column of hellfire that spread out across him, scorching and unforgiving._

_"Lucifer," Crowley mouthed, for the words wouldn't come past his lips. "Please."_

_"You still have faith!" Lucifer snarled. "After everything she did to you! Give her a second chance and all she'll do is worse!" He spun him around, then, to come face to face with the Devil - no longer resembling his brother. A burning figure with skeletal wings scorching prints into his eyes, flashing red eyes drowning with emotion fury and, perhaps, a little desperation. "You have me. You don't need forgiveness. You don't need faith. You give them a second chance and all they'll do is hurt you. Are you just waiting for them to prove that? Wait for them to, what, go the mile and tear your wings off? What then? You do not need them. They ruined us, Raphael!" He paused, waiting for a response that Crowley could not give him. He felt frozen, trapped, paralysed._

_For a moment, there was only the sound of wind whipping around them and fire crackling. Lucifer burned down on him, intense and Hellish, and he couldn't move a muscle for fear of what might happen if he did._

_Lucifer clapped a hand either side of his neck. "But now I'm out. It doesn't have to be like this anymore." His hands seemed to shake with barely restrained rage, and as he took one step back, the mountain disappeared beneath them. Lucifer disappeared, too, and Crowley's wings folded in, struggling to do anything else against the wind pressure. Something inside of him burned, and he didn't know if he was screaming or not, for the vast space around him swallowed every noise._

_Surely, this was death. It felt like he was dying. He was being stripped apart, atom by atom, and being burned away, being tainted, corrupted, twisted. His wings smelled like ash and surely they would fall off; shrivel up and fall off like dead limbs, leaving gross, bloody wounds in their wake that would serve as a reminder for eternity. She was watching his Fall, too. Watching him plummet and fester like a dirty open wound, just before She turned Her gaze from him, and She'd never look at him again._

_Hell raced to catch him._

Crowley shot up. His heart dared to shatter his ribcage which was, quite frankly, irrational, because he didn't even need a heart.

His wings, not aflame but still manifested, shot out, too. Paintings that had been hung up on the wall found a new home on the floor, the mirror above the dresser smashing along with the lamp, little shards of glass raining down the floor. Aziraphale, who had been sitting and peacefully reading a book found in the bunker's library, narrowly ducked being hit by one of the feathery appendages by acting fast and ducking onto the floor. 

Upon realising just what was happening, the demon on the bed forced air to steadily work through his lungs. It took him a moment longer to process the transition from burning alive to sitting in a bed. Lucifer was not here, nor was the Almighty, nor Michael or Gabriel. The only angel in the room was Aziraphale, and he was looking extremely concerned. 

"Crowley? Good Heavens, are you alright?" He asked and, upon seeing he was not under threat of being hit by a wing again, he pulled himself to his feet, brushed off his clothes, and then hurried over. Crowley blocked his path with a wing, cutting him off, and he clamped a hand over his mouth. He didn't eat, yet he felt the need to be sick.

He had not relived the Fall in decades. Dare he say it, centuries, even. Not like that. 

A hand settled on his wing and he glared at Aziraphale, a threatening hiss rolling deep in his throat. The angel simply smiled at him, eyes soft and warm. He raised his eyebrows a bit. "Can I sit down?"

Cheeks warm with embarrassment, Crowley lowered his wings. He pulled the one in front of Aziraphale back, tucked tight into his back, while the other hovered awkwardly as if afraid of moving and knocking something else down. Aziraphale took a seat next to him, not too close, and he clasped his hands together on his lap. "Can I ask what happened?" 

Crowley pressed his lips together and looked away, grasping at his cool façade as if he hadn't just wrecked the room over some irrational fear. He wanted to go outside; the room was much too stuffy, too small, like the tight confines of Hell. But it wasn't Hell at all, for Aziraphale was there. And with perhaps a minor miracle, or perhaps an innate angelic ability, warmth, security and love rolled off of him, seeping right into his tightly wound bones and forcing tension from his shoulders.

"Nothing," replied Crowley. Aziraphale gave him a doubtful look and Crowley's eyes suddenly found interest in the little shards of glass on the floor.

There was a knock at the door before it swung open. Sam and Dean, dressed in their night clothes but wielding both the threatening knife and a gun respectively. Castiel, dressed normally, was a little behind them. They all (save for Castiel) looked rather flustered, as if they had just woken in their sleep (which they probably had) and run down to the commotion. Looking both very much like they were two children that had just smashed their parents favourite ornament and were in the process of sweeping it under the rug, Crowley and Aziraphale peered at them sheepishly, frozen in spot. 

"What happened?" Asked Dean.

"Is everyone alright?" Asked Sam at the same time. 

Castiel stared at his wings. 

"Oh, yes, we're quite alright," said Aziraphale, jerking out of his little daze. "Just a little..." He grimaced and waved vaguely around the room, not finding the right word to accurately describe their current situation. 

They did, at least, lower their weapons and let out a small sigh. Then it occurred to the two humans that there were two large wings in the room, and Crowley was tempted to laugh at the expressions on their faces. Save Castiel, who seemed less innocently curious than the humans. 

Crowley cleared his throat. "It's rude to stare, you know." He pulled both wings tightly against his back, cringing once when one wing thudded against the wall and the last remaining picture hanging up tumbled down. 

"Sorry," Sam murmured, blinking a few times. "We've... we've never seen, uh... wings before," he commented. Crowley snorted and, with a simple thought, his wings disappeared from the human's point of view, into another plane of reality. 

"Obviously," Crowley drawled sarcastically. "Nothing to see here. You can be on your way," he shoed, waving them off. Dean simply nodded, still half asleep and eager to return to his bed.

"You can use another room for tonight," Sam offered sheepishly. With a click of Crowley's tongue, however, the room was suddenly spotless once more. No glass shards on the floor or twisted picture frames. Sam nodded his head. "Never mind, that works too. If... everything's alright, then... I'll be off again," he offered. Aziraphale and Crowley simply smiled innocently until they all left, their footsteps fading down the corridor. With a sigh, both of them slumped in the bed and Aziraphale turned to Crowley once more.

"You do know you... you can talk to me, right?" He asked, hesitant. "We are friends, after all."

Crowley's stomach twisted and fluttered. "I - yeah, yes, absolutely. Of course," he spluttered, waving a hand in some vague gesture. Aziraphale smiled encouragingly at him and Crowley rolled his eyes at the look. His eyes found one of the paintings on the wall; a waterfall spilling out through two mountains, trees dark and ominous and beautiful. "It was just a dream, Angel," he muttered. His shoulders bobbed in a shrug and Aziraphale returned it.

"I've heard that it's good to talk about things," the angel said. Crowley blew out a dramatic sigh.

"It was about the Fall," he grumbled under his breath, fingers picking at a thread in the bedsheets. 

"Oh." Aziraphale looked as if he regretted asking it now. "Do you... do you remember the Fall itself?"

Crowley let out a sad laugh. "Oh, yeah. Can't forget something like that."

"I'm sorry," said Aziraphale, genuine and real. Crowley looked up at the buzzing light above him and heaved out a sigh.

"Not much either of us can do about it," he replied. Aziraphale shrugged.

"Nonetheless, I'm sorry. I... I believe that whatever brought your Fall about... I'm sure it was never anything bad."

Crowley's lips curled up slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

Aziraphale didn't look away. "I mean that I don't think you would have done something _bad,_ Crowley. You know," he shifted on the bed, and behind him his wings spread out ever so slightly behind him. His wings were beautiful, Crowley thought. He thought that if one were to ask a human to describe an angel and their wings, that is what they would describe; pure, pristine, holy white things, large and dazzling to look at. However, he also thought that no human could accurately capture what his wings looked like.

They fanned out behind him, one curling towards Crowley ever so slightly, a small, silent offer and invite. They were more white than a human eye could catch, and shimmered ever so slightly in a way that made it look like a 'glitch', as if they were not supposed to be here or be seen by his or any human's eyes. Rivulets of pale gold interlaced his feathers and, upon catching the light, they glittered brightly. They gave off a soft light themselves; soft and warm and divine, so much so it almost hurt his damned soul to look at for too long. They were sturdy and strong, firm muscle hidden beneath the soft feather coat. They glittered like the frozen surface of the moon, as if there were tiny stars hidden among the curves of each feather, as if both the rising moon and setting sun were shining upon them. They looked as if God - and not their cruel, cruel God, but rather a different one, a softer, loving one; one who was the size of galaxies and who smiled with suns and loved dearly - had held Their hands in the freezing water on the moon, or on some planet many galaxies away, and moulded them there, then had hung them out to dry among the burning stars. They looked as if gold danced in their shadows, giving off just a tint to them, and they sung songs of love and security, of mercy and care and forgiveness, and they gave off such warmth.

No human could possibly word what Aziraphale's wings looked like. Not when Crowley himself had a hard time perfectly encompassing their depth and divinity. He could, however, duck his head and shuffle closer to Aziraphale and allow him to drape one wing around the both of them, and he could tell himself that there, underneath that angel wing, there was nothing wrong. No harm coming to them, no harm in the world outside. Heaven and Hell did not exist and nor did God, and it didn't matter if he was Raphael or if he was Crowley. 

"I've thought back to the crucifixion of Christ. Remember?"

"How could I not. Poor guy."

"Well, you asked me what he said that was so wrong. _Be kind to each other._ And you said; 'that'll do it'. You were quite right. Doing... doing the right thing, or anything slightly questionable; it was punished. I have a hard time believing you ever did something truly _bad_ to be cast out, if that's worth anything."

Crowley swallowed. _No,_ he wanted to say, _I never did anything bad. I'm not even entirely sure why She decided to do it. Not entirely. It hurt. It still does._ Instead, he looked away and shrugged. "Thanks," he replied, quiet, and Aziraphale nodded. They didn't need to say more than that.

"I think you should stay a little longer," said Sam, setting down a cup of tea in front of both Aziraphale and Crowley." A couple of days at least. We don't know how long they'll be waiting nearby for you."

"I'm not eager to rush into my death," Crowley retorted. He reached for his tea, cupping his hands around it. It wasn't that valerian root tea that Castiel had given him before, and he was grateful for that; he had been craving a simple, normal tea. Perhaps with a splash of vodka, but that was a different matter. 

"I'm inclined to agree," Aziraphale mused, holding his own tea. "I'm not overly eager to meet Zachariah or Uriel any time soon."

Crowley snorted at that, nodding his head.

"Can I ask what happened last night, or do I not want to know?" Dean asked across the table, and Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. Swallowing down a syrup drowned pancake, Dean continued. "With the, uh... wings." 

Crowley scoffed. "Just that," he said. "Forgot they were that big."

"They were rather big," commented Castiel. Crowely rolled his eyes at the suspicion - not maliciously suspicious, no, but nonetheless - in his tone. He didn't believe him when he said he couldn't remember before the Fall, and now he was curious as to the size of his wings. At this rate, Castiel was going to go to Heaven and dig out whatever files Michael hadn't burnt or shredded.

"Well, thanks," he said, nonplussed, and he took a sip of his tea. 

"What about you, Cas?" Dean jabbed his fork in Castiel's direction. "You got wings?"

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. Behind him, his wings - larger than Aziraphale's, but much more sleek, more built for immediate speed, and smaller than Crowley's - tightened against his back. They weren't as pristine as Aziraphale's - cleaner towards the inside of his wings, but approaching the outside of his wings they got more... grey. Right on the edges of his primaries, in fact, they were black. Bronze interlaced them, shimmering and deep, but they were outdone by the singed edges, the few patches of missing primaries. They were burnt, and by the looks of it, by hellfire. And Castiel was ashamed of them. 

Although Crowley was definitely interested in that story, he also understood. He would be too, had he still been of Heaven and angelic intent and not supposed to have singed black wings. 

"Don't think you'd wanna see those," he said, leaning on the table. Castiel frowned at him and he continued. "You know; you seen what an angel's true form does to a human? Same thing for angel wings. Not a smart idea." He hissed out a breath between his teeth, shaking his head. He brushed off Castiel's momentarily shocked, then grateful expression. Dean deflated slightly but shrugged it off, nodding in understanding. 

"That sucks," he grumbled, and soothed himself with another bite of a pancake. 

"I was thinking, Crowley," Sam spoke up, suddenly whisked by enthusiasm. The demon tipped his head towards him, peering out from over his sunglasses. "There might be a spell to get your memories back. You said you couldn't remember before your, ah, Fall, and maybe-"

"No." Crowley cut him off, quick and firm, shaking his head. "I'm quite alright with that." 

Sam's eyebrows drew together. Aziraphale, too, looked curious as to why he would so adamantly refuse the offer, and Castiel simply looked even more suspicious. Dean was looking between the two of them, curious and intrigued but not enough to stop eating his breakfast. "It wouldn't be dangerous or painful," said Sam, "if that's what you're worried about-"

"No," Crowley repeated, hissing the word out between his gritted teeth. "I don't need to remember it." He half debated storming back to his bedroom and leaving Aziraphale to apologise on his behalf. He almost did, too, but he instead simply crossed one leg over the other, turned his head away and focused on his tea. Sam held his hands up in defence, not pressing the issue longer and an awkward silence fell upon them, broken only by the sound of cutlery on dishes.

"I was thinking that we should find another case," said Dean, looking over Castiel and Sam. "Get out. Go hunt a ghost or a vampire. Do something normal."

"We don't have time for normal," Sam replied drearily. "Not when there's an antichrist a few miles away and Heaven acting up again."

Castiel nodded his head. "I think it would be wise if we... laid low for a while at the moment. Heaven is still determined to get their war with Hell; I think it's in our best interest to focus more so on Adam."

Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well, after kicking Satan back down to Hell, you'd think they'd have their hands full."

Castiel shrugged helplessly and Crowley studied the tea in his hands. Too much milk, he thought. Only Aziraphale got his tea how he liked it. 

He did not know what Lucifer was up to. He seemed determined on finding Gabriel, but Gabriel had not been heard from for thousands of years. Plus, he might not even want to see Lucifer after his Fall. He didn't know where he would even start in trying to find Gabriel. He seemed to be inclined to the idea of... getting some kind of revenge on Heaven, or on Michael and the Almighty, from the sounds of it. But other than showing his desire to find Gabriel and for him to join them, Lucifer had yet to clue him in on any real plan he had. He liked to imagine that it was nothing bad, but last night seemed to prove otherwise. 

"I'd like to get rid of Uriel and Zachariah," Crowley muttered into his tea. Aziraphale spared him a glance and seemed to agree with it, if his expression told him anything.

"If you'd allow it, I'd love to look around your library more," Aziraphale said hopefully. "You've got some splendid books."

"It's all yours," Dean shrugged. "Whatever's not locked, you can look in, basically."

Aziraphale beamed at him and, with that, he stood up. Crowley, deciding he didn't have anything better to do, stood and followed him closely as they left the trio and found themselves deeper into the bunker and into a dusty room that simply screamed 'Aziraphale', what with all the old books and articles around. A table sat in the middle, already with a pile plucked out from Aziraphale, and Crowley slumped into a chair. 

"I'm going to go stir crazy in here," he announced, watching Aziraphale potter around the bookshelves, dragging his finger along book spines. 

"Well, they have plenty of books here I'd love to read," he hummed, turning to look at him with a smile. "Some I've not even seen!"

"That's all good for you, Angel, but I don't read."

Aziraphale frowned at him. He pulled a couple of books off the shelf and added them to the growing pile on the table before sitting down beside Crowley. He crossed one leg over the other and then spread one book out in front of him, opening it to the first page. "You should start," he told him, "you're missing out on a lot."

Crowley blew a raspberry. "I could be doing better things with my time," he declared. He watched Aziraphale pull out a small pair of reading glasses - that he knew he didn't need - and slide them onto his face, and then he began reading. Upon not receiving an answer, Crowley leaned further onto the table, shuffling closer and resting his chin atop his arms. 

"Angel," he whined. Aziraphale didn't budge. "Come on. A miracle glass of wine, huh?"

"It's nine in the morning, my dear."

"And we don't have to deal with the consequences of it. We're immortals! It's part of the fun!" 

Aziraphale spared him a look from his book and Crowley grinned, bared teeth and all, and the angel returned his attention to the book. Crowley's face fell and he looked around the room for anything of interest. He found none. With a sigh, Aziraphale closed his book and looked up. He plucked his glasses of his nose and held them, folded, between his hands. "What about that thing Sam offered, then?" He asked. Crowley raised his eyebrows. "The memories. I would have thought you would have been... eager for that opportunity."

Crowley slid back and folded his arms across his chest. "That time's gone, Angel," he replied. "What good will it do?"

"It might give you closure," he offered. "It might be good for you."

Crowley sighed and tipped his head side to side, avoiding Aziraphale's curious eyes. "I don't think it matters much. The Fall's as much as I care to know about. What're you reading."

Aziraphale sighed at the shift in conversation but nodded nonetheless. He held the book up, prodding the cover gently. "It's on angels," he said. "I didn't think there were - well, any books on angels. It doesn't seem like a thing that would be available to humans, but... it is." He shrugged and opened the book once more. "It talks about holy water and holy oil, sigils and an attempt at translating the language. A poor attempt. Most of it is folklore, of course, but it's interesting nonetheless. I'm sure there's probably an interesting book on demons in here."

Crowley hummed, and then scoffed. "Ah, yes. I'd love to read a book on the tortures that goes on in the pitsss." He dragged the last word out, hissing it off his tongue. Aziraphale brushed his sarcasm off like water off a ducks back, and Crowley slumped dramatically in his seat for but a moment before he leaned back onto the table. Aziraphale had turned back to his book, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead as he read with such intensity about some human's uneducated rambling. Occasionally his lips would mouth the words he was reading. When it got a little colder in the room, he shifted enough to extend his wing out towards Crowley, warmth all but seeping off of it. Crowley entertained himself by watching Aziraphale read and he did not spare a single thought to damned Raphael. Not at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I really do appreciate any and all feedback greatly. I hope you enjoyed it! You can find me on Tumblr @veteranklaus.


	4. Remaining Corrupt As I Wish For Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does snake Crowley have wings, just hidden on a different plane of reality? Little snake wings?

"What do you suppose we do now?" 

Crowley blew out a breath. "Well, I suppose that we don't get ourselves killed by Zachariah and Uriel," he drawled. His nails tapped across the oak wood table lightly. "Then we... continue watching the antichrist, I guess? Resume what we were doing?" He shrugged helplessly. 

Aziraphale looked rather defeated as he slumped into the chair, his hands clasped upon his stomach and his eyes stuck on the table in front of him. He let out a sigh and then looked back up at Crowley. 

"Do you think that Zachariah and Uriel will be waiting for us?" He asked. Crowley scrubbed a hand down his face.

"Ah, well, I'd love to say no, but angels are very stubborn when it comes to... smiting, aren't they?" He mused. He raised an eyebrow and attempted a grin, though it felt more like a grimace. Aziraphale looked uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and looking at the ring that adorned his pinky finger with sudden interest.

"Not them," he murmured. Crowley simply inclined his head slightly and turned around in the chair, throwing his arm around the back of it. 

"We can't pull another stunt on them - they figured that out a lot quicker than I thought they would," Crowley began. "Is there a way to trap two angels for all eternity?" He asked. "And then eventually even more angels when the rest come after us?"

Aziraphale snorted at that, rather miserably, and he closed his eyes and ran his hands down his face. "Oh, good Heavens," he uttered, and his eyes flicked upwards as if saying a prayer - although that would do the direct opposite of what they wanted. 

"Not the best people to ask for help," quipped Crowley. Aziraphale let out a small laugh at that, shaking his head.

"Definitely not," he agreed. He turned his gaze towards the books in front of him that he had left in favour of speaking to Crowley, and the conversation wasn't necessarily pleasant. Spitting out half-assed ideas about how they should deal with Heaven. The only two real possible options were; kill whoever came after them, or continue to hide in warded places for a couple of centuries until they might forget about them. Neither of them particularly wanted to get into a fight with two angels - and inevitably more - and nor did hiding away seem very pleasant. Though, Crowley was willing to bet he'd be able to sleep for the majority of it, but then that would leave Aziraphale to entertain himself for centuries, which simply wasn't fair. Perhaps Crowley should try and convince the angel to sleep.

"Have you ever-"

"Do you think-"

Both of them halted, staring at one another awkwardly.

"You go," Crowley said, waving a hand. Aziraphale shook his head.

"No, no, you speak first," he insisted. With a huff, Crowley sat up slightly, crossing one leg over the other.

"Have you ever, like... thought about trying to sleep?" He inquired, raising an eyebrow. Aziraphale squinted slightly.

"I've tried once," he said, "I didn't find it that enjoyable. I woke up rather disorientated and groggy. Why?"

"Well, I was thinking that - well, isn't it a great way to pass the time? We find a nice bed, bring a fan into the room, some nice bedsheets and just... sleep. Sooner or later Heaven'll forget about us if we just... lay low for a century or two, huh?"

Aziraphale deflated, and then gave him a look. "I'm not going to sleep for hundreds of years," he scoffed, shaking his head. "As much as I know you're willing to do that, I'm not." 

Crowley held his hands up in defence, shrugging. "I'm just saying," he hummed, voice rising in pitch. "I think it's a rather good idea. Fine, fine. What were you gonna say?"

Aziraphale puffed his chest out slightly, sitting up. "I was going to ask if you thought that Hell would follow suit?" 

Crowley grimaced at the notion. "Ah, it's... it's a possibility," he said, head tipping side to side. "One I'd rather not think about. But, _but_ \- all things considered, I don't think they'd go for you, really," he offered. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "I mean, stay out their way and they'll leave you for Heaven. Probably." He punctuated his sentence with a shrug, slouching into the chair and folding his arms over his chest. 

Aziraphale turned his thoughtful gaze back down to his hands, clasped onto the table. His lips pressed together in a tight line, face grim, and he absently twisted the ring on his pinky around. Crowley opened his mouth to say something when there was a sudden sharp pain in his skull and-

_"Look, I'm not sorry about what I said, but I suppose I'm sorry about how I said it."_

_Crowley whirled around and almost went crashing into a seemingly bottomless pit if not for Lucifer lashing out and willing him not to._

_"Well, I am sorry about the lack of warning."_

_"What - Lucifer - what?" He spluttered, turning to look at his brother._

_There seemed to be light flickering around them akin to a candle, although there were no lights, no candles around them - there was nothing. A never ending expanse of inkiness that threatened to devour them and send his mind, accustomed to the consistency of Earth and human reality rather than the supernatural tricks of the universe, fumbling in a panic and confusion. Lucifer's wings were the first thing he noticed; impossibly large, for Lucifer had the largest sets of wings any angel had ever had, only followed by Michael, Raphael and Gabriel. And, as Crowley noticed, they were healing._

_His wings were healing. Flesh and muscle and feathers slowly growing back over the bones, which should be an impossible feat if not for the fact that this was Lucifer who Crowley was beginning to believe held more power than he was making known. The feathers coating the tops of his wings and closer to where they would join his back were lighter; not pure white as they once were, but the lightest of the rest; a thick, smoky grey that delved rapidly into bottomless black feathers; as deep and dark as the deepest pits of Hell. Crowley feared that should he reach out to touch them, he would be sucked in and not stop falling for all eternity. Then, growing further down his wings, they delved into galaxies and stars. They burned bright and like fire, red and orange and gold, and Crowley realised that was where the light was coming from. They were spread out to their full length and despite their bones that still stuck out, sharp and angry, they were powerful and intimidating. Although the feathers were definable, easy to notice, here they seemed less formed of feathers and rather ripples of energy, hot and powerful._

_Here, Lucifer was not tied down by his human form, and thus Crowley had the chance to see him all. The other sets of wings of his true form were spread out as if taking the opportunity to stretch. They were regenerating slower than his largest pair; muscles slowly knitting together, though they were majorly still the skeletal remnants of what they once were; flickering and fizzing. He felt as if all of the wings had sprouted hundreds of eyes, all scrutinising Crowley, whom suddenly felt very small, very weak and insignificant._

_And there, in the centre of them all, was Lucifer. Foregoing his human form and no longer one with his angel form, he stood large and devouring, something singed, something burning, something damned and intense. If Crowley stared for too long, he felt himself falling forwards, through a sea of boiling blood where claws reached out to drag him down, through walls of fire and racks of tortured souls. Like this, Lucifer was endless, the full embodiment of The Devil that everyone feared, and Crowley reeled back in horror._

_As for Crowley himself; being here seemed to pull forth a form he had not occupied in millennia. He was not as large as his angel form once had been back in the Beginning, nor was he as large as Lucifer. He smelled like ash and flame, like bubbling venom, and he burned like a black fire, like a melting shadow, composed of void black and ruby red venom. His wings sprouted from his scaled back, large and arched, and two sleek, reptilian arms sprouted from his scaled torso, ending in smoking claws like hooks. His serpentine tail ended in smoke, thick and heavy and powerful, spiralling upwards, and his fangs glittered with molten gold akin to angel blood, almost similar to his serpentine eyes that scrutinised Lucifer._

_Had he been able to in this place, in this form, Crowley would have been immediately sick._

_"What have you done?" He demanded to know. As much as he willed himself to leave here - wherever here was - and to leave this disgusting, demonic form Hell moulded for him, he could not. It felt similar to running into a brick wall or spreading one's arms out and welcoming the oncoming freight train._

_Lucifer's wings twitched. "I did some thinking and decided I needed to apologise. I acted so rudely before-"_

_"And you think thisss isss any better?" He raged, gold flying from his fangs and disappearing into the darkness around. His claws scrabbled at the deep scales of his underbelly as if he could pull them off and shed this form like a snakeskin._

_"We need to talk," Lucifer stated, low and rumbling. "I've danced around it long enough. I need you to understand-"_

_"Underssstand what?" Crowley hissed, and he approached Lucifer's burning form with a push of powerful muscles. This form, despite all its hideousness, felt natural. It felt like coming home after a full day of rigorous work and sliding first into a hot bath, and then into a freshly made bath. It had, after all, been specifically made for Crowley, was interlaced with his being, hooked into his festered grace and acting as an extension of it. It disgusted Crowley._

_"Underssstand that we're fallen?" Crowley sneered. "That God sssent usss out and that Ssshe dessspisssesss usss? That I lossst everything, that thisss-" his wings flared, furious and twitching, "isss what happened to Raphael! Why can't_ you _underssstand it?" He snapped. When he lashed out, striking fast and deadly, Lucifer dodged and not in fear of any physical damage._

_"You know that'll only hurt you, brother," he sighed, sad and shocked, and Crowley glared at him._

_"Look at me," he hissed. "Isss this your Raphael? Ssstill from Heaven all thossse yearsss ago? You need to move on! Look at me!_ _You_ _want to talk, then talk," he urged. "But Raphael isss no angel. Raphael isss dead. Our passst, our Heaven, our God - they are gone, Lucifer. Gone."_

_Lucifer pulsed with emotion, a flash of fire devoured by the void, and a feather fell free from his wing. "You're right," he said, finally. "What we know is gone. But you are still Raphael. You are still what you once were, but now you're more than that. We have what we were and what we are." He took a moment to calm from the way he burned with sudden intensity, growing more fierce, and then he continued. "I admit, I brought us here because I was sick of those human forms. So restricting. Have you ever tried folding six wings away? It's not comfortable."_

_"I can't imagine it isss," Crowley responded._

_Lucifer seemed to draw himself together once more, considering his words. They died on the tip of his tongue. "How's your safe house coming along?" He asked instead. Crowley looked away, irritated and urging to leave._

_"I'm in there right now. How - I wasssn't even asssleep. How did you bring me here? I need to go back, Lucifer."_

_Lucifer huffed. "It's well within my range of power," he stated flippantly. "We have all the time in the world. I won't hold you for long. I want you to leave. I have a plan of what I need to do and I want you with me. Ideally, Gabriel will be there, too. Perhaps you could do that for me; I've been rather busy, I've not had time to find him."_

_Crowley's eyes narrowed. "I can't leave," he snorted. "Zachariah and Uriel will kill me the sssecond I ssstep out of this sssafe houssse."_

_Lucifer deflated with exasperation. "Just kill them," he whinged. "You know you easily can."_

_Crowley recoiled. "What? No. I don't - I don't kill people, Lucifer."_

_"Ugh, do I have to do everything myself?" Lucifer groaned. "I was hoping to lay low for a little while longer... no matter. Don't worry about them. Leave tomorrow, it'll be safe then. And... if you're still with those... Winchesters that I saw when I came out... you might want to cut your contact off. Heaven has plans for them that you don't want caught up in, brother."_

_Crowley's eyebrows drew together. "What plansss? What do you mean?"_

_"Just that."_

_"You can't kill them," he stated. "They've helped me. You can't kill them."_

_Lucifer burned bright. "I don't plan to kill the Winchesters unless they act up," he said. "It's Heaven. Just leave tomorrow and don't worry about it."_

_"I won't leave Aziraphale."_

_Lucifer's wings bristled, flashed with energy. "He's an angel. Whether or not you have silly feelings towards him, angels only hurt you."_

_"Not Aziraphale," Crowley growled. Never Aziraphale, angel or not. "He is not with Heaven anymore."_

_"Keep him out the way," Lucifer relented, unhappy nonetheless. "I mean that."_

_"What are you planning? We just avoided a war, Lucifer. Tell me you're not ssstarting sssomething no one wantsss."_

_"I'm doing what needs to be done," Lucifer snapped, and fire rose within his wings, roaring and hurt. "And I'm doing it for us. It's not a matter of Armageddon."_

_Crowley's eyes slid shut. "I don't want to fight, Lucifer."_

_"I know that," Lucifer sneered. "Heaven sends angels to kill you and Aziraphale and you can't bring yourself to use a third of your power and get rid of them." He drifted closer and as far as his eyes could see, all that existed was Lucifer; his massive, gorgeous, damned wings, his coiling, burning grace. "You need to understand what's going on now, brother. This isn't something anyone can run from. I'm out now, and you know that I can't just... sit down. Heaven and Hell are going to strike and things are going to change now that I'm out, whether or not I do something or choose to buy a house in Russian wilderness. I want to make things right. Firstly, with you." If he had hands, he would have reached out to clamp one on Crowley's neck in some affectionate gesture. He doesn't, however, but he mimics it in a flare of his Hellish grace that caresses Crowely's. "You're my brother. I love you. And I dearly hope that you find yourself and make the right decision."_

_Crowley's insides burned. They writhed like a pit of snakes, slipping over one another, tumbling and turning into tight knots._

_Lucifer's grace is not what it once was. It is not like Aziraphale's; exuding love and warmth and safety, even to a demon like himself. Lucifer's is damned and cursed and malicious; sharp and rough. But there - a small part of it, reserved exclusively for Raphael and, possibly, Gabriel too, which sung love and desperation. It was enough to keep him from the edge of fear._

_He knew, realistically, that as soon as Lucifer's presence was announced that any hope for peace would be obliterated. Michael would be furious. She'd gather her armies to try and kill him, and although Lucifer was powerful, he could not take on all of Heaven. Crowley would have to help him. Right? He couldn't stand by and let his brother, who had fallen for no real reason, be murdered. But he could not encourage him to act until they had to._

_"I cannot leave Aziraphale-"_

_"I know that," interrupted Lucifer, "you've already said that, and I've told you that as long as he's not a problem, then fine."_

_"But I cannot leave the Winchesters, either. They helped me. They dessserve it in return," he stated. As much as he may not entirely like the Winchesters - although, they were growing on him, with their insufferable generosity and naivety - he couldn't leave them to the hands of Heaven. The least he owed them was a warning._

_Lucifer grumbled beneath his breath. "I'll deal with Zachariah and Uriel," he said. Crowley watched a new feather sprout on his wings, clean and burning like a sun. "And you can do me a favour. Hell, go wild; the Winchesters are hunters. Maybe they can help, before their untimely death."_

_"What?" Crowley asked, referring more to the last part. Lucifer's wings curled in slightly, as if they were mocking a shrug._

_"Find Gabriel for me. I've tried baiting him out, so he might very well get sloppy and leave a trail. Surely the Winchesters would be eager for a... a 'case'. Yes, yes. That'd be lovely. Find Gabriel and come to me, and then we can discuss this all together. And... bring your Aziraphale along. And that other angel - I did some digging, too. He's cast out, isn't he? I feel we'd have some things in common. Bring them along. How does that sound?"_

_"You sssaid the Winchesters are going to die," he responded. His head cocked to the side, his tongue dashing out and tasting the air._

_"All humans do," Lucifer stated._

_"You said untimely."_

_"Well, should Heaven go through with their plans, anyway."_

_Crowley closed his mouth tightly. He could warn the Winchesters and - could he? They would want to know how he knew. He couldn't reveal himself. Maybe he didn't have a choice._

_He could watch out for them. He could find Gabriel._

_He could do that._

_Lucifer's grace pulsed in a parody of a grin. "Good."_

_The darkness around them inched in, and Lucifer felt suddenly distant. Crowley closed his eyes._

"He reeks of Hell."

"Yes, well... he is a demon."

"More so than usual." 

"You did say he was a snake, but... well, I dunno what I expected, honestly."

When Crowley opened his eyes once more, he was on the floor. That was startling enough, but the infrared, colourless sight that came with his snake form did as well. He was extremely thankful that it was not his demon form, but rather the smaller version of his serpentine form. Although, that was odd enough. He supposed Lucifer's pull to his core had pulled him from his human form completely. 

He was, most embarrassingly, on Aziraphale's lap. Sprawled out awkwardly like a ragdoll and his head hung over Aziraphale's right arm. Sam, Dean and Castiel were in the room, too, all eying Crowley curiously. A few feet away sat the shattered remains of the new pair of sunglasses Aziraphale had miracled for him earlier, most likely crushed beneath him. 

He felt horrible. As a spawn of Hell might after millennia of being dormant and then suddenly being woken up forcibly. He felt rather nauseous. He had not donned that form since those few decades in which a particularly cruel punishment in Hell had sent him into a bloodthirsty frenzy. 

Upon lifting his head and opening his eyes, attention turned quickly from talking about him to him entirely.

"Oh, thank the Lord," Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley turned to regard him curiously. "Oh, don't look so innocent! What happened? You had me terrified! I thought you had gone and - I don't know - gotten yourself hurt!" He raised a hand, then a finger, and he ran it across Crowley's scaled head. Crowley responded with a half-hearted hiss. Aziraphale frowned, as if he could understand said hiss, for he continued to speak. "Don't hiss like that. I was worried sick! What happened? You were about to speak and then you just - just..." he waved his free hand vaguely, Crowley's lower body still wrapped around his arm. "Collapsed. I know you're clumsy, but that was something else. And then you changed - much slower than you usually do, by the way - and stayed out. Cold!" 

Crowley flopped his head back down on Aziraphale. He felt groggy and heavy and he would much rather sleep and process what had just happened rather than deal with the upcoming conversation.

"Can you change back, my dear boy?" Aziraphale asked, eyes soft. "I'd like if you explained what happened." 

Crowley didn't respond. Aziraphale sighed. 

"Are you alright, at least?" He asked. Crowley hissed. Aziraphale ran an acknowledging finger along his head and down his body and, if Crowley wasn't so tired (and if it wasn't so soothing) he might have hissed or snapped at his hand slightly. As it was, he didn't do either. 

"I suppose you're tired, then?" Aziraphale added, and Crowley hissed his response. With a grunt, Aziraphale hauled himself to his feet and Crowley helped manoeuvre himself, wrapping himself loosely around Aziraphale's shoulders and neck. When he caught Dean eying him, he lifted his head, narrowed his eyes and hissed. Dean held his hands up.

"I didn't say anything!" He defended. Aziraphale smiled meekly.

"He gets grumpy when he's tired," he offered. Crowley flicked his tail by Aziraphale's ear. "Oh, stop it," the angel scolded with the click of his tongue. He turned once more to Sam and Dean. "He also doesn't tend to... be a snake, these days."

Crowley rarely turned to this form. He didn't need to nor did he really want to; there was nothing for him in it other than the way he could unhinge his jaw and that shedding skin was insanely satisfying after it was done. Also, perhaps the ability to thoroughly drape himself over something; but otherwise, there was little need for him to be a literal snake. 

"Do you have any idea why that would happen?" Sam asked. Aziraphale sighed regretfully and shook his head. 

"I don't," he admitted. "You don't, er… you don't happen to have a heat lamp, do you?" 

"Why?" Dean asked, blinking dumbly. Sam scratched the back of his neck.

"I can check," he offered. He turned to Dean. "Snakes can't regulate their body heat. It doesn't help that this bunker is always cold."

"I always wanted a pet snake," Dean murmured, completely brushing off Sam's fact. Crowley hissed at him and Dean wore a smug smirk. Crowley bared his fangs as if he had any intention to lunge at him, but then they were moving; Aziraphale following Sam, Dean following them, Castiel lingering in the doorway and eying him curiously. 

He did not like that Lucifer had stolen him away. He had no idea how long he had been 'out', and he did not want to deal with any possible consequences. He felt utterly drained from the sudden summoning, and more so with the fact that he'd been forced into a form he had not donned in millennia, and that he did not want to don. And then this body felt groggy and heavy, stuffed full of cotton, and he was yet again in another form he did not want to be in. Lucifer was on his way to kill two angels, Heaven had unpleasant plans for the Winchesters, and it was only a matter of time before Hell came for him, too. Lucifer had plans that Crowley almost didn't want to know about and certainly didn't want to be a part of. It felt as if his past was unravelling, his secrets coming tumbling out into the open after keeping it hidden for so long. And for some reason, Crowley almost longed for it. He longed for the past before his Fall, where it was him and his brothers and God living lovingly together. He longed for Raphael, archangel of healing, full of divinity and grace and love, moulding nebulas with his hands.

Apparently, there was a heat lamp in the bunker. After dusting it down, Sam plugged it in and Aziraphale gathered a blanket. He spread it out beneath the heat lamp and then nudged Crowley. He slithered down his arm like a bridge, landing on the heap of blankets and below the Heavenly heat lamp. He assumed that they thought getting some rest while under the heat lamp would help him. Perhaps it would. 

Aziraphale pulled up a seat next to him and clutched a book between his hands. He regarded Crowley, curled up lazily, and then he sighed.

"Should I be worried?" He asked, quiet. Crowley simply looked away, afraid that if he saw Aziraphale's tight and sad expression that he would grow his human head just to blurt everything out to him. Instead, he let his tail droop over his eyes and turned his head towards the heat lamp. Guilt would have to wait. He needed to decide what he was going to do.

"Are you awake? Oh, good."

Aziraphale's hand shook his shoulder until his eyes peeled open again, and he first realised that he was no longer a snake, but still curled up on the floor beside the heat lamp. With a groan, he hauled himself up, brushing off Aziraphale's hand and rubbing his eyes.

"How long hasss it been?" He asked, the hiss rolling off his tongue involuntarily. He grimaced, grossed out, but Aziraphale glossed over it without a bat of his eyes.

"Since you first collapsed? Three hours," he said. "Usually you sleep much longer." Crowley sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. He did feel much better after the quick nap, but the weight settled on his shoulders almost convinced him to simply roll back over and fit as much of himself underneath that heat lamp as he possibly could.

"Do you want to explain yourself?" He asked, eyebrows raised expectantly. Crowley grimaced and tipped his head side to side.

"Ah, well, s'not a big deal," he shrugged, voice rising in pitch. Aziraphale gave him a look and Crowley raised his hands helplessly. "I dunno," he shrugged. "I was going to say something, and then I'm on the floor. Think it was a snake thing," he lied. "You know. Snake problems. Probably just gonna... shed soon, or something." He scratched lightly at his neck, glancing aside. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

"Again? Isn't there usually a bigger gap between sheds?" He asked, almost sounding concerned. 

"Usually. But hey, don't worry 'bout it. It's not a big problem. No harm, no foul," he offered a smile. Aziraphale didn't seem to buy it for several moments, eying him as if he would be able to follow the lie and call him out. He didn't. Aziraphale stood from the chair he had pulled up to Crowley's side, offering a hand for Crowley to get up. He took it, getting to his feet. He brushed down his crumpled clothes, smoothing them out and then raising his hand to fix his hair. 

"Promise me that you're alright," Aziraphale requested, quiet. "You've been acting so weird lately, Crowley." 

Crowley toyed with lip between his teeth. "'m... 'm just stressed. After that attack, I guess. Thought we'd have more time," he replied. His hands found home in his pockets, his shoe scuffing the floor. "C'mon, how about we go get some tea?" He offered, eyebrows raised. Aziraphale looked rather conflicted for a moment before he relented, nodding with a sigh. The two of them left the little set up with the heat lamp, scuffling into the kitchen. Upon their entrance, the trio sitting at the table stopped their conversation abruptly, awkwardly. Crowley ignored them in favour of the kettle.

"Nice nap, snake man?" Dean asked.

"I'll bite you," Crowley hummed back. He fumbled around until he found two cups, then for longer until he found teabags and sugar. 

"What happened?" Sam perked up, leaning on the table and clasping his hands together. His eyes were soft as if he was worried for Crowley. It made his stomach sink.

"Snake stuff," he simply responded. "Usually, I get a warning. Just not this time," he shrugged. He eyed the kettle as it boiled, only sparing them all a brief glance. Castiel still didn't buy it.

"As long as you're okay," Sam offered dubiously, then glanced at Dean and Castiel. "There's actually something we need to tell you."

That caught his attention. He turned around, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest. "Oh?"

It was Castiel who spoke up. "Occasionally, I can still hear news from Heaven," he announced. Crowley tensed. "Zachariah and Uriel were killed."

"What?" Aziraphale spluttered, wide eyed. "How? Who did it?"

"They don't know," Castiel said, shaking his head. "Demon, they think. I don't know who would be strong enough to kill two angels without leaving a trace."

Crowley pressed his lips together. "Well, I suppose that's good news for us," he offered. He turned to Aziraphale. "Not stuck sitting around, huh?"

Aziraphale toyed with his hands, his eyebrows furrowed and forehead creased in thought and worry. Crowley didn't say anything, simply eying everyone in the room. 

"It is good news," Dean agreed. "Two less winged dicks trying to kill us. No offense." He gave an apologetic wave to Castiel and Aziraphale. Castiel didn't look surprised. 

"You guys - you guys are hunters, aren't you?" Crowley asked suddenly, shifting foot to foot. Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Yup," he responded simply. "You interested?" He asked, then let out a small laugh. 

"We aren't busy," Crowley responded. Aziraphale perked up.

"What?" He asked, looking between them all. "Crowley, we aren't - we aren't _hunters._ " 

Crowley skipped forwards, waving his hands. "No, no, but - ah, just think about it," he mused, pursing his lips. "You trying to find something? 's fair, isn't it? You help us, we help you."

Sam and Dean shared a look while Crowley hopped closer, offering what he hoped was a pleasant, charming smile while he leaned on the table. "You want to help us?" He echoed. Crowley spread his hands innocently.

"Think of it as... returning the favour. You said you wanted a case, huh?" He pressed. "I'll even find you one. Boot some poltergeist back into the afterlife, or something. It'll be fun," he drawled, looking around at them all. Aziraphale looked rather uncertain, Dean rather amused, Sam rather neutral. Castiel looked rather closed off, impassive but curious at Crowley's intentions. 

"Perhaps... I suppose we do owe you something," Aziraphale said, tipping his head. "Without... the others on our case. Perhaps we could help you out," he agreed. Crowley held back a loud sigh of relief. He didn't know what he'd do should Aziraphale disagree with him. It would make the whole progress of trying to find Gabriel much more difficult. 

"There hasn't been much activity lately," Sam admitted, looking to the bunker doors. 

"Ah, Earth's just crawling with things," Crowley said, waving his hand. "We'll find something. Lend a hand and all," he offered. The kettle behind him clicked, water boiled, and he busied himself with making the tea.

Perhaps Gabriel had left a trail. Crowley just needed to find it.

Or, perhaps Crowley could draw him out himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely sure how I feel about this chapter, to be honest, but hopefully you guys enjoyed it! Thanks for reading!


	5. Until These Hands Contaminate You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

Crowley had not really thought about this. 

Really, it wasn't a problem. He simply didn't want to have to deal with it should it _actually_ be a problem, even if it was unlikely.

Sam and Dean were asleep, and he would usually be, too, had he not closed himself off in the bedroom for a while to really consider the options that lay out in front of him. He felt like this was akin to one of Aziraphale's dumb 'party tricks', with cards spread out on a table in front of Crowley, face down. These cards were labelled A, B, C and so on, with a multitude of decisions he had to make. He could pick one. They held, hidden from his view, the outcomes and consequences of the decisions, and he would not know what they were until he took that course of action. 

Crowley had not felt this conflicted since his last argument with Aziraphale, which had resulted in him sleeping off a century. 

If Crowley had been back in his flat in London, he might have written down the options and outcomes on paper and let them float around the room, spinning around him, taunting, mocking. As it was, he wasn't willing to risk that here, so he simply sat in the bedroom he'd been offered in the bunker, the door locked from the inside, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. 

Crowley did not know what Lucifer was planning - not entirely. No doubt a fight; a vicious, bloody fight that would most definitely be more of a battle in an endless war rather than a simple fight. He wanted Crowley on his side, of course, as well as Gabriel. A real shame for Lucifer, considering neither of them really favoured fighting. Crowley's best guess was that he was taking this right up to Heaven. No doubt to Michael. Crowley wasn't necessarily troubled over the idea of Lucifer and Michael fighting it out again, if not for the fact that this time around there was a planet full of innocents in the way. 

Crowley had several options for what he could do in return. He could grab Aziraphale and relive that idea of running off to Alpha Centauri; it should be far away enough that they were safe from harm. However, Lucifer would be able to easily find him. It would be inevitable, and might only get himself and Aziraphale into trouble. 

He could say fuck it, leave now and find Gabriel, and then return to his brother's side and fight against the Heaven that had kicked him out. He could use those millennia of rage, of hatred and of hurt, and get his justice. It would very well end with the obliteration of Earth, having all the archangels at one another's throats yet again. 

He could try and convince Lucifer to do nothing. To step down, to go back to Hell, perhaps, and take position as ruler. Clean it up a bit and whip the demons into shape, and run them like a well oiled machine. Unlikely. 

He could go ask for help. Go up to Aziraphale and tell him everything he'd been hiding from him, tell the Winchesters and tell Castiel, and ask for their help. What then? Accelerate the Winchesters apparently approaching deaths, or make it seem like he's betraying them, for they would not understand his stance with Lucifer. 

He could turn on Lucifer. Should he pull on his dormant powers, awaken a side to him that had died in his Fall, he might be strong enough to fight Lucifer. He could send The Devil back to his cage in Hell, avoid what it was he was planning. Perhaps the Almighty might even take him back for it; see it as some completed redemption. But could Crowley bring himself to do that? To bare his fangs towards his brother, to launch at him and try and tear him apart? Could he really look at Lucifer and dig his claws into his wings? He doubted it. 

Crowley felt as if his life was slipping through his fingers. He'd accepted that he was Fallen from grace, damned and rejected, and that there was no chance for him to return to what he once was. He accepted that. He had built a new life for himself, entertaining himself between a little chaos to keep Hell off his back and with Aziraphale. He liked this new life, and now it was coming apart. The truth was coming out, his past coming to haunt him, and he despised it. 

Gabriel. What harm would finding Gabriel do? Perhaps only good. He would, of course, have to explain himself. After the fights between Michael and Lucifer, Gabriel had ran away. Shortly after, Raphael had been part of the fight to send Lucifer into the cage in Hell, and he had died. Oh, he would have a lot of explaining to do, but Gabriel would listen. And then they would talk this out together.

There was also the problem of everyone else. He would not leave Aziraphale, for he would not give anyone the chance to harm him should more angels be sent after them. Perhaps he could simply branch off from them when they neared Gabriel, and he could pause time for long enough to organise something. Yes; that was what he would do.

Now came the problem of _finding_ Gabriel. He had managed to hide from both Heaven and Hell for many millennia, after all. It would not be easy, unless Lucifer had been right in trying to smoke him out. Crowley could do that too. He could give a brief flare of power, perhaps. Power that he thought he would never touch again, and power that would surely bring Michael's attention on him once more, but he would have to deal with that later.

Now, back to the first problem. Sam and Dean were asleep, and usually, Crowley would be too. He had locked himself in the bedroom, after all. He needed to get outside, but sitting at the table in the way of reaching the stairs and the door were two angels that did not sleep. It wasn't a problem, really. Crowley could just say he was going for air - and he would say that - but should they get suspicious, or want to accompany him? He'd have to lie. He did not enjoy lying to Aziraphale. He had to. 

Outside, he would do just a little thing. Enough to make himself known. Enough to echo _Raphael_ for them to feel. It should draw Gabriel out enough to have a hint of where he was. The bunker was warded enough that Aziraphale and Castiel shouldn't be able to feel a thing.

Crowley hauled himself to his feet, unlocked the door, and strode out. His shoes echoed around the corridor, loud as he disturbed the fragile peace held up between Aziraphale and Castiel, sitting by the table and both reading up on cases for them. They looked up as Crowley entered, curious. 

"Oh, I thought you were asleep," Aziraphale commented. His eyes lit up upon seeing Crowley, but quickly morphed to concern. "Are you alright?"

Crowley waved a hand, continuing on towards the stairs (and still skirting the rug beneath them which hid the irksome devils trap.)

"Me? Oh, yeah. I'm fine," he said. "Getting some air. Be back in a few." He ran his hand along the banister as he hopped up the staircase, taking them two at a time. He felt Aziraphale and Castiel's eyes on his back, following him up and out the door. Thankfully, they didn't say anything, and Crowley wasn't interested in whatever they said to one another once he left. 

There was a chill in the air that didn't bode too well with Crowley's serpentine side. The sky was clear, full of flaming stars that gave him their full attention. It seemed as if they were watching, waiting with baited breath, for a remnant of _Raphael_ to show again. They peered close, intense and pulsing, shaking with anticipation, and already a few stars in the sky flared brighter than usual. Anyone out stargazing that night would be witness to a spectacular show of flaring stars, growing larger and brighter and pulsing in rhythm.

Crowley walked. His feet carried him further away from the bunker and into the trees around. The dead leaves his feet stepped on came out fresh and green, and wilting flowers that brushed against his calves preened and grew Heavenwards, blooming and strong. Trees arched towards him and azalea's grew from his footprints. He kept walking, and his wings stretched out slowly, straight behind his back and weaving between trees. His eyes stayed upwards, on the pulsing stars above his head. He longed to reach out and trail his hand among them. 

Was this a good decision? Probably not. He ought to just go back inside and forget about Lucifer and Heaven and Hell and just live a blissful, oblivious life with Aziraphale in their cabin nearby. 

Nonetheless, Crowley continued to walk until he felt he was a good distance from the bunker. Then, he unfurled his wings either side of him, broad and powerful, and looked inwards. 

His grace was a dark thing these days; coiling like a snake, reeking of Hell, flowing like a river made of molten black and ruby red, interlaced by ancient gold. Deeper into it was the shredded remains of his angel; pure, blinding gold that mourned its Fall and longed for its divinity. It recoiled from Crowley's serpentine gaze, hesitant and curious, and then he tugged on it. It surged forwards, flowing through his veins and exploding in his wings. It stole the air from his lungs and burned pleasantly, refreshing. It felt similar to an artificial high pumped into his veins like those ones that humans sought out. No, it felt better than that; a million times better than that. It made his wings shudder and his amber eyes burn like golden fire when he opened them once more. 

He looked towards the stars. His signature creation; thousands moulded and hung up by his hands. He had loved creating them more than anything, and his brothers had loved them as well. So had The Almighty. 

Lucifer and Michael had fought among them. Back even before the Beginning, the trigger to their Fall, when Michael and Lucifer had waged war upon one another. They had created galaxies from their fighting; had been powerful enough that they could have obliterated this entire galaxy should they go at it again. Raphael had feared that they would destroy his creations, too. They'd devour his stars and nebulas in the explosions created from their rivalling power, and Crowley had feared that.

He wondered if Gabriel was on Earth, or if he was among the stars. Perhaps somewhere else entirely. 

Crowley didn't want to use a lot of his power. Whether that was because he didn't want to draw more attention to himself, because he didn't want to accidentally awaken ancient creatures instead of Gabriel, or because he was _scared_ of his power, he wasn't sure. All of them and more, really. 

Raphael had been a powerful angel. The third angel to be created in existence, he had been close to The Almighty, much alike an extension of Herself until he had developed into an individual, into his own person, as had Michael, Lucifer and Gabriel. He had been created to excel in healing. He had been made to be significant in God's creating of humans. He would keep them all healthy in terms of body, spirit and mind, to the best of God's will. He'd uphold peace and security and love. He had aided in creating the universe around the one humans would exist in, and that universe itself. He had made mountains with his hands and rivers with his love. 

Raphael had not been an angel that was supposed to fight. He was not like Michael; God's first dedicated warrior. He was not made to fight, but he could. If one could create universes, he had power enough to destroy them. And then he had Fell. 

He did not have the ability to create or destroy universes anymore. He didn't have enough power to create a single star these days. His capabilities of creating and healing had been shredded almost completely, for he did not deserve them. His wings had burned in the Fall and his grace had shrivelled up the further he fell from Heaven, and then tainted and corrupt within Hell. Only little wisps, slivers and glimpses of his original, his true grace still remained uncorrupt. They hurt and they mourned, tortured little echoes of his past that had lay dormant for millennia. He hadn't dared reach out to them since his Fall. 

What would happen if he did? Holy and damned did not belong together. Would reaching for his corrupt grace and that which wasn't corrupt just tear him apart? Like a miniature demon and miniature angel waging war on one another, his body serving as the battlefield. Would it simply corrupt the rest of his grace, or would it leave him as some abomination, rejected from Heaven, hated from Hell?

Grace pulsed through him, hot and heavy, burning like exploding stars. His wings shuddered, shivering in the breeze. His eyes burned like flames. 

Was he really about to echo his name in the stars? Really about to return to _Raphael._

Grace flared to his fingertips and Crowley reached out. His hand ghosted over stars like the surface of a lake, dipping among them. The stars flared, blinding bright, and moved like they were swaying on top of waves. The sky spun around the Earth at a rapid speed, as if someone had grabbed a globe of the planet and spun it ridiculously fast, space tumbling around them, dizzying, breath taking. They loomed closer, trying to get a better look at Crowley, at Raphael, and they sung his name like a choir. 

_RAPHAELRAPHAELRAPHAELRAPHAELRAPHAEL._

And then it stopped. As quickly as it had started, it stopped, and Crowley was once more standing among trees. The stars were normal, untouched, and his flare died and retreated back inside of him. His wings slumped and almost threw him off balance, and then tucked into his wings. He felt, suddenly, very cold to the marrow of his bones, very tired. He regretted the action now, when he had to stand and wait. 

Would Gabriel suddenly appear? Would Michael? Half of Heaven and all of Hell?

He waited. He stood, open and waiting. 

Nothing happened. No one came.

"Bastard," Crowley hissed, glaring upwards. He lingered, just on the off chance that someone might show their face. Nothing continued to happen, and Crowley made his way back towards the bunker, tired and agitated. He couldn't take it back now. 

The bunker greeted him with a burst of warm air, and he welcomed it eagerly, chasing away the chill in his bones. Aziraphale and Castiel still sat at the table, unmoved. Castiel eyed him upon his return and Aziraphale offered a smile. 

"Feel better?" He asked, cheerful and oblivious. Crowley scratched the back of his neck and nodded.

"Yup," he said, popping the p. "Needed that air. Now, if you don't mind, it's time for sleep." He slid across the rest of the room, eager to avoid any potential questions. He lingered in the doorway to spare them a glance. Perhaps Gabriel would not show himself immediately, but perhaps while he was asleep. He would give him time. 

Crowley continued on towards his bedroom, where he was quick to collapse into his bed and gaze up at the ceiling above him.

"Is this part of Your plan?" He asked. "Or are You not even watching me at all? Are You even there?" He closed his eyes with a sigh. Unsurprisingly, there was no response.

Crowley did not sleep that night. 

"Crowley, are you awake in there? We found a case! We're leaving soon, my dear."

Aziraphale's knuckles rapped across the wooden door outside, and Crowley sat up in the bed he had tossed and turned in for the entire night. "Gimme a minute," he grumbled. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and then ran them through his hair to tidy it up. He was used to sleeping and without it, he felt groggy and heavy, limbs full of lead and head stuffed full of cotton. Nonetheless, he hauled himself off the bed and then out of the room, heading towards the large meeting room once more. 

Everyone was sitting around the table, dressed and ready to leave at a moments notice. Dean was hurriedly gulping down hot coffee that made Crowley grimace, and Sam was nursing a herbal tea at a much more civilised pace. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow ever so slightly at Crowley's slightly dishevelled appearance, but he held his tongue. 

"What's the case, then?" Crowley asked, sliding up to the table and placing his hands upon it. He peered at them and then raised a hand and with a click of his fingers and more power than he really had to expend at the moment, a new, unbroken pair of sunglasses appeared in his hand. He slid them on, feeling much more like himself with them. 

"Supernatural disturbances in a town a few hours away. Possible poltergeist, but not just in one place," said Dean, eyes flicking towards Sam's laptop.

"There's, uh, also videos from last night appearing," Sam stated. "Something... big happened. I don't know what caused it, but we should keep an eye out." 

Crowley raised his eyebrows dumbly. "Huh. Alright then. When we leaving?"

Dean stood up, finishing off his coffee. "Now," he replied. With a simple nod in response to his spontaneous answer, Crowley stretched his arms out over his head and followed everyone out of the bunker. Not having his beloved Bentley, they all piled into Dean's Impala; all three supernatural beings crammed into the back with the demon awkwardly crushed between two angels, his hands hanging between his knees. It seemed like all three of them shared the same thought; _flying was a much more effective mode of travel._ Much faster, easier, and not so _cramped._ Or, at the very least, his Bentley was better; usually because there wasn't three people crammed together. 

Dean put on his music and bickered with Sam about its volume for what seemed like most of the ride until it occurred to Crowley; he didn't know what was going on at all.

"So... you mentioned a poltergeist?" He commented, looking between them all. "Or, possibly poltergeist? What now? I know we offered our help, and all that, but, like... we aren't hunters," he said, making a noise in his throat, scrunching his nose up and waving his hand in a vague gesture.

"Possible poltergeist," agreed Dean, "it does poltergeist-like things, but it's throughout the entire town. Windows shattering, lightbulbs exploding, shit getting thrown about, etcetera, etcetera." 

Crowley clicked his tongue. "Lovely. How, pray tell, do we deal with it?"

"If it is some poltergeist, then we salt and burn its remains. That should deal with it, but we need to find it first. If it's not..." Dean shrugged and spared him a glance in the rear view mirror. "We deal with that then."

Crowley hummed and looked out the window. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds easy," he commented sarcastically. They didn't speak much again, falling into silence beneath the echo of his radio. Crowley's knees knocked against Aziraphale's, and he fell against both Castiel and Aziraphale at each twist and turn in the road. He kept his eyes on the window, his senses reaching as far outwards as they could go in his fatigued and drained state. He felt as if he had to be constantly alert for Heaven and, truthfully, he feared that any moment Michael and Gabriel would appear in a flash of lightning, forgoing human vessels and burning him with their true forms, to either make another example of him or to send him back into Hell. He was rather surprised that they hadn't already; he would have thought that they would have tracked him down the minute he did that little stunt last night. 

What did they think? Was Michael furious? Was she sitting in a sterile office in Heaven, gripping her seat with a grip that splintered it beneath her hands, while she summoned forth an army of angels to tear the Earth apart to find him? Was she amused? Laughing at him trying to grasp at the remnants of divinity? Perhaps she was even scared. Two angels are murdered suddenly, easily, and after all these years, unprovoked, Raphael makes an appearance? Did they know about Lucifer yet, tied the killings back to him?

Why was Crowley still doing this?

He looked to Aziraphale. Oblivious Aziraphale, gazing out the window contently, his hands clasped together upon his lap. He did not deserve to be drawn into Crowley's web of lies, into the mess of his existence. He did not deserve what Crowley was doing to him, and he didn't even know he was doing a thing. 

He had lied to Aziraphale for a reason. In the beginning, it had not mattered; Crawly was a demon and Aziraphale had seen him as such. His past didn't matter. Not even all the way through six thousand years; it had not mattered. Only in the past two or three centuries had Aziraphale shown an interest; an occasional question every six decades, a curious inquiry. It hadn't mattered then, because it had never mattered before. It only had begun to matter in these past few days, really, and rapidly so. Crowley despised it. He hated how everything was unravelling beyond his control and he didn't know how to deal with it. He wanted someone to tell him what he had to do; to put him on the right path and go 'here are the steps you need to take, here's the outcome, everything will be alright.'

No one was there to do that, though. Crowley had himself and himself alone. 

Catching his eyes on him, Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley. Perhaps he could read the tension in his shoulders or the guilt in his eyes, for he gave him a bright smile; one that said _I don't understand what you're doing, but I'm here for you and you're alright._

Perhaps he did not have just himself. 

Aziraphale did not press, and Crowely did not speak. The Impala sped through country roads and no one seemed willing to speak. 

The town was a fairly big and busy one; streets bustling at this time, teenagers in school uniform wandering to buy lunch in the town centre. Dean reached forwards to turn the volume on his radio down ever so slightly. 

"We're gonna go out and ask around, and then we're gonna head to the place where most of it's happened," Dean told them all, pulling his car to a stop in a space. Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, hi there, have you heard anything about a poltergeist?" He mocked. "I don't think that'll get us far."

Dean shot him an unamused look. "Not like that, dumbass. Ask about the stuff happening in general. People are a lot more superstitious than you'd think."

Crowley simply shrugged as if he didn't entirely believe him, and Dena made no move to try and convince him otherwise. They scrambled out of the car, Crowley grateful to be out and able to stretch his legs - why did he end up in the middle every time? Did they just find it funny to put the demon in the middle? - and his joints cracked in agreement. Aziraphale grimaced at him as if he had grown two heads rather than just obscenely cracking his joints. 

"Spread out?" Sam suggested, and Dean shrugged and then nodded. 

"Why not? Meet back in an hour," he announced. Crowley complied, then nudged Aziraphale.

"C'mon partner," he said, "let's go be hunters." 

Aziraphale chuckled lightly, then nudged him in return. "Let's," he grinned, acting rather joyful with their situation, and Crowley led the way down the street, his hands stuffed tight into his pockets. 

Did he have at all an interest in asking about electrical faults or poltergeists? Not at all. But did he enjoy the sight seeing with Aziraphale? Perhaps.

"I didn't want to mention it in the car in front of everyone else, but are you alright?" The angel asked, soft concern shining in his eyes. Crowley spared him a glance. 

"I didn't sleep well last night," he replied, not a lie. 

"Bad dream?" He asked. Crowley shrugged.

"You could say that." 

"Before that? Are you feeling ill? Crowley -" he let out a huff, wringing his hands in front of himself and eying the pavement. "You've just been acting so _strange._ You passed out! You - I just don't understand what's gotten into you. I'm - I'm _worried._ " He looked at him, frowning and eyebrows drawn together, his forehead creased. Crowley let out a breath, shaking his head minutely. When he did not respond, Aziraphale reached out to grab his arm and halt him. 

"Angel, it's-" Crowley began, and then stopped, huffing out a breath and looking upwards. There was a chill in the air here today, and he didn't much fancy it; it ate away at his burning insides. He did not want to talk about this. 

"You know you can trust me, right?" Aziraphale asked, suddenly serious, cautious. Crowley reeled.

"Of course! Of course, I just - 's difficult, Angel," he sighed, shaking his head and shifting on the spot. His heart pounded against his ribcage, threatening to break them apart and bust out. His lungs felt like shrivelled up flowers, caught aflame by the burning, churning grace inside him, trying to settle with the sudden flare of old grace coiling with demonic disgrace, hot and nauseating. "I've just... been remembering, I guess," he murmured. His foot scuffed across the floor. Aziraphale seemed pleased that Crowley was opening up, even if it wasn't entirely true. His face lit up, gentle and hopeful, and he didn't press. 

"'Bout... 'bout before. The Fall, I mean. Not a lot, mind you, but... flashes. It feels bad. It, uh... when I passed out, that - that happened." He shrugged helplessly, avoiding the angel's eyes at all costs. Aziraphale softened. The hand on his arm squeezed him slightly. 

"Oh... I'm sorry, my dear," he murmured. "I hadn't thought..."

"Don't - don't. I didn't even know that was possible to happen. It's just... hard," he shrugged, and that wasn't a lie, either. Thinking about it all stole his breath away and made him physically sore, as if the action itself wasn't punishing enough but he had to live in the wake of his Fall for eternity. Aziraphale shook his head. 

"I can't imagine it's necessarily pleasant," he murmured. "Would you... would you like to talk about it?" He asked. Crowley's stomach tightened and he looked upwards to the sky. Beyond the sun and the clouds lay the stars, many of his own creations, and he let out a breath. He could talk about his time as an angel for millennia. He could discuss how he had flown between planets and how he had basked in divinity as if he was only a level below a God. 

"Maybe... some other time," he croaked, suddenly feeling very worn out. He was very tired. He felt as if the last few weeks had put him through the ringer and it was only getting worse now. He felt as if it was time for another century long nap. 

Aziraphale did not press. He nodded, gentle and understanding, and Crowley focused on Aziraphale's hand on his arm. "Do you know how it's happening?" He asked, and Crowley shook his head.

"I don't. It's just happening," he replied. He cleared his throat, composed himself, and stood a little straighter. "I could go for a cup of tea," he said, eagerly changing the subject. Aziraphale agreed and the two continued on down the street, to the nearest little food van that they could buy a hot cup of tea from. Crowley hugged the cup with his hands, breathing in the steam contently and forcing his mind on from the previous topic of conversation.

They filled the hour with inane chatter and things not hunter related before they returned to Sam, Dean and Castiel, waiting by his Impala.

"Find anything?" Crowley hollered, his shoes tap, tap, tapping on his way towards them. 

"Not much," sighed Sam. "You?"

"Nada," he replied with a pout. "What now?"

"Well, I guess we ought to go the school," Dean grunted. "It's where most of it's happening, apparently - or where more people are talking about it. Seems more violent there, anyway."

"I would hope none of the students are getting hurt," Aziraphale commented, mostly to himself. Crowley waved a hand.

"I'm sure they're fine. Let's check it out, huh?" He shrugged. With that, the Winchesters picked up the lead through busy streets, weaving among one another. Crowley walked close enough to Aziraphale that their elbows and shoulders occasionally brushed against one another, what with Crowley's swaying walk style. Sam and Dean had donned bags since they first dispersed, and Crowley smelled holiness reeking from them; no doubt from little compact bottles of holy water. It made him turn his nose up, a grimace on his face. No doubt there were plenty of other things in it that Crowley would not agree with. 

The school was an old building, large and dark and looking more like a prison rather than a school. It stood out like a sore thumb at the end of the street, imposing and threatening, and it certainly felt like it held undercurrents of supernatural powers, something angry and confused. It made him almost sad to reach out to it. 

That was not what took Crowley's attention, however. It was rather focused on the new undercurrent of power that seemed to catch on the wind and drift right to him. Although Castiel's eyes narrowed and he shared a suspicious look with Crowley, he did not comment. Aziraphale didn't seem to feel it at all. 

Crowley let his eyes roam around and then they settled on it. In the form of a man with brown hair and hazel eyes that burned like honey, and they burned directly into Crowley; wide and disbelieving, horrified and sad. Behind him, his wings shimmered gold and bronze and copper, powerful and arched. It stopped Crowley in the spot, leaving behind everyone else. 

_"Gabriel."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any mistakes towards the end; that was written in the lovely hours of 2-5am. Hopefully it isn't horrible. If it wasn't and you enjoyed it, please leave a kudos or a comment! <3


	6. You Are Hurting (Everyone You Touch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell's time zone(?) is the same as it is in Supernatural - being that on Earth, half a year is roughly forty years in Hell.  
> Shorter chapter by a few hundred words, but I wanted it to end as it did. Enjoy!

" _Gabriel."_

He looks so very human, too. Blending right in if not for his familiar grace. He looks very human, too, in the way he wears his emotions on his face, clear as day. They flicker through his features, fast, rapid; love, shock, disbelief, horror, grief, confusion, and settling on some sort of pained hope. They're standing on opposite sides of the street, a road separating them, and Crowley feels like his feet are melted to the floor. 

He has not seen Gabriel for so, so long. He remembered the night he ran away from Heaven and not a single soul could find him again, and then it had been too late for him to even try, for he found himself crashing through the universe and into Hell. He and Gabriel had been close as the younger, gentle angels; curious in how they painted the Earth for humans, too curious for their own good. Gabriel had brought his playful side out; had made him laugh and smile. He had taught him how to be carefree and enjoy existence. They had flown among their creations together, raced one another, competed in good spirit. They had been close; perhaps the closest out of the archangels. Gabriel running away had broken his heart, but he couldn't blame him. 

It occurred to him, then, that Gabriel had not hid so much as blended in. He always had been thoroughly fascinated with humanity, no doubt would he have loved to get closer to them. 

And here he stood, a few metres from him. He looked extremely conflicted, and Crowley couldn't bring himself to go to him. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale was beside him; everyone back to his side, watching him curiously and then looking across to the brunette who must have hidden himself from the other angels, for they seemed to regard him as another human.

"Is, uh, is everything okay?" Sam asked, eyebrows furrowed. Crowley simply continued to watch Gabriel. Neither of them dared to truly move for several long, agonising moments. Then, hesitantly, Crowley took a step forwards. A small gesture to invite him forwards. 

The cars on the road stopped for Gabriel to walk out in front of them and cross the road, and then he stood but a few feet from Crowley. Then, with a powerful beat of his wings, he surged forwards and grabbed Crowley by the throat. They fell back against the wall behind him and as they did so, it felt like the force of the impact pushed him out of his body. He fell flat on his back in the void, broken only by Gabriel above him. His wings shone dazzling, stretched fully out, and from the feathers opened up tens, hundreds of eyes, all molten gold and staring Crowley down. 

"Who are you?" Hissed Gabriel, and his voice wavered with emotion. "How _dare_ you? Do you think this is funny? You better explain yourself or I will not _hesitate_ to kill you so painfully you'll wish I had just sent you to Hell." His hand pushed down ever so slightly on his throat. The eyes on his wings burned into him with fury and disgust, and they let out some kind of frequency like a parody of a horror, inhuman scream, intimidating and murderous.

Despite the situation, Crowley couldn't help but smile. "Why, I only ever took after you for tricks," he croaked out, and he reached one hand up to rest on Gabriel's shoulder. "Surprise?"

Gabriel's eyebrows drew together, dubious and hopeful. "You died," he stated, and Crowley smiled, sad and bitter.

"That's what Michael said," he murmured. "Not so much as died rather than... going vaguely downwards," he offered. Slowly, Gabriel's hands around his throat removed, instead extending to pull him onto his feet. Crowley didn't drop his hand, and nor did Gabriel.

"It's - they all said you died. Lucifer killed you," he ground out. His fist tightened in Crowley's jacket, as if thinking he might disappear, or he might suddenly turn into Beelzebub or Hastur playing a cruel prank on Gabriel.

Crowley waved his free hand. "Not quite. Couldn't have another one go native, though," he stated. One hand brushed down his side with a grimace; he wouldn't appreciate that slam later. "They've got a fake you parading around," he commented. Gabriel raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, but he seemed to focus more so on Crowely - _Raphael_ \- in front of him now. His face turned cold again.

"I swear, if you're trying to trick me with this," he growled, and his grace flared in a way that made Crowley look away with a grimace, closing his eyes in fear of them being burnt. 

"Gabriel," he hissed. "After years of racing around Rigel, I would think you'd recognise me better," he said, frowning. The little memory seemed to make Gabriel pause, eyes distant for a second.

"You know, when I heard you died, I hated myself," he murmured. "I thought that, had I stayed, I could have stopped him. Saved you. Swapped places, whatever."

Crowley waved a hand. "Better that you left. You didn't have to see it," he replied off handedly. Gabriel's eyes flicked away, glancing into the void around them. With a snap of his fingers, the void fills and Crowley finds himself sitting on a comfortable couch in a well decorated house. A large chandelier glittered around the room, hanging high off the ceiling, and a yappy little mutt ran up to him, barking in a way Crowley feared his ears might begin to bleed. Its fur puffed up out of the ridiculous pink jumper it wore and Crowley grimaced, taking in the sudden change and looking to Gabriel who stood a few feet away, plucking up a flute of champagne from a tray stocked with them. He held one out to Crowley who shook his head.

"I saw what you did last night," he stated. "It felt like you were there. I didn't know what to think. I thought it was some joke, but I couldn't risk it. After the whole shit show that happened with that Armageddon-that-wasn't, nothing's been the same. Everything feels wrong." With a sigh, he discarded his champagne. With another snap of his fingers, they were no longer in a luxurious mansion, but rather sitting by a large lake surrounded by towering, snow-topped mountains. "What happened, Raphael? What happened?"

Crowley took a moment to gather himself, looking at the stars reflected in the lake. "I Fell. Shortly after you ran away, Lucifer was cast out. Then I did, too," he stated, words crawling roughly through his throat. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and ruffled his feathers in the gentle breeze. 

Gabriel looked sad. "Why?" He asked, and he sounded as bad as Crowley had during his first moment of lucidity and coherency after his Fall. Crowley sighed.

"Hung out with the wrong crowd. Got too curious. Had it coming, really," he said lightly, shaking his head. "And, well, Lucifer Fell, then you left; they couldn't risk losing all their archangels, I guess. So they replaced you with some bumbling idiot and said I died. "I, uh. You should call me Crowley, now. I'm not Raphael."

Gabriel looked back at him, then he reached out, gesturing at his face. "What did they do to you?" He asked, and he sounded torn between sadness and grief, and anger. With a grimace, Crowley reached up to peel his glasses off his face. 

"Ever heard about Adam, Eve, and the serpent?" He asked with a grin more akin to a scowl. "Courtesy of yours truly. Jolly good time. Falling can't keep me from having some fun." He tried for light hearted, but there was a tension in the air that snaked around his ribs, wound them together tight, and he couldn't shake it. He cleared his throat. "Gabriel, I've not... I've not been Raphael for some time, now. Last night was the closest I think I'll ever get, but I needed to speak to you."

Gabriel shook his head. His jaw was locked, his eyes pinched. "What happened to Heaven?" He muttered. "I left for a reason. It just got worse, huh?" 

Crowley blew out a long breath. "It sure did," he said. For a moment, they were quiet, sharing in the grief of what once was. It stretched out for eternity until Crowley shuffled closer, and he extended one of his burnt wings out to curl around his brother. It made Gabriel let out a sound between a pained laugh and a sob. "They're black," he commented ruefully. Crowley grimaced.

"I know," he muttered. "Rather disgusting now, aren't they? Better than some, though." He shrugged, for he had already come to terms with the repulsive state his wings were in. Some didn't have wings any longer; he was just glad his hadn't been torn off completely. 

Gabriel scrubbed his hands down his face. "Do you think I would have changed anything staying?" He asked, hesitant. Crowley shook his head.

"No. You would have just ended up like me," he replied honestly. "Nothing could have stopped Michael and Lucifer. Nothing could have stopped Lucifer falling, or me. You did the best thing you could have, I think."

"I thought my brothers had killed each other," he murmured. Crowley closed his eyes. 

"Heaven's a mess," he simply said. "But none of us died."

"I felt him," Gabriel said, sudden. "When Armageddon was supposed to happen. I felt him. Lucifer. He was out of Hell."

Crowley nodded. "I saw him," he said, and Gabriel turned to him with wide eyes. Crowley continued. "That's... that's what I need to talk to you about. Lucifer was out of Hell, and the antichrist sent him back. Only, Lucifer... he left before he could be banished. Lucifer is still out. He has been since not-Armageddon."

Gabriel turned away, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. 

"We've spoken. He wants to see you again." 

"Lucifer isn't like what he once was, Raph - Crowley," he said, hurriedly correcting himself. Crowley appreciated it more than he probably should, suddenly tired by the insistence from Lucifer that Raphael was all he was. "Surely you know that." Gabriel looked guarded, cautious as he approached this topic. Raphael and Lucifer had always been close before he began questioning things and fighting with Michael, and then they had grown apart. 

"He's not malicious," Crowley said. "He just wants to talk with us again. He wants the best for us-"

"No, he doesn't," interrupted Gabriel. Crowley pulled his wing back as Gabriel stood up, pacing the shore of the lake. "You've heard of what he's done since his Fall. You - you first hand should know-"

"Don't," Crowley said, sharp and firm. He did not need to think of Hell, partially powered and created by Lucifer's own corrupt grace. The same place that had tortured him since his Fall and the majority of it had been created by his brother. Gabriel gave him a look. 

He looked skittish, as if he would run off and disappear at any moment now, and Crowley stood up and reached out. "Gabriel, please. We're still brothers-"

"I know that, Ra - Crowley," snapped Gabriel. "And it pains me more than anything to see what's become of God, of Heaven and Michael, of Lucifer - and of _you_. It hurts me so much. I've only ever wanted us to be a family again, and you know that. But Lucifer is not who we know anymore, Crowley. Like you are not Raphael anymore, Lucifer isn't himself. Hell changed him. What has he been saying to you?"

Crowley let out a breath and closed his eyes. "He's been travelling. His vessel isn't holding him well. He... he wants us to be there for him," he said. Gabriel shook his head.

"He's going after Michael again, isn't he?" He responded. Crowley hesitated.

"I don't know."

"He is. You know he is. What else would he be doing?" He turned, then, and came closer to Crowley, amber eyes soft. "Don't ask me to be with him after what he's done, Crowley. Don't go with him. I thought you were dead. Don't do that to me again."

"I wouldn't die-"

"You would. You're smart, Crowley. Stop this. I love Lucifer as much as you do, but we both know he isn't the same. Not anymore." He reached out, sounding so desperate, so not the trickster he usually was, and Crowley stepped closer. Opening his arms, he melted into Gabriel. They clutched onto one another with renewed vigour, and Crowley felt millennia of longing and hurt coming through. His hands fisted into the trickster's jacket, and Gabriel held him as if he would Fall back down to Hell if he let go. 

What a mess the remnants of Heaven were today, he thought. Shattered remnants of God's mighty army of archangels; one corrupt and power hungry, one the spawn of Hell, one a tainted, broken demon, the other a lonesome runaway. A disgraceful mess, courtesy of God Herself. 

Gabriel felt very much like home. Like a different lifetime, exuding familial love and care, and Crowley hadn't realised how much he had truly longed for that. His grace burned hot nearby Crowley's, divine and holy and old, and Crowley longed for his own back. 

Finally, Gabriel pulled back and so did Crowley. Gabriel suspiciously sniffed, blinking a few times. Neither spoke for a few moments before a thought occurred to Crowley.

"Where are we?" He asked, glancing around. "I... they'll be worried. For some reason, they seem to care about me, and someone suddenly tackling a demon and disappearing isn't a good look."

Gabriel flinched as he referred to himself as a demon, his eyes downcast. "It's not been long for them. We're fine," he said. "I... we're safe here, and I want some time with you."

Crowley inclined his head slightly, and then he settled back onto the floor in front of the lapping waves of the lake. Gabriel settled down next to him. "Where have you been all this time?" Crowley asked. Gabriel's lips twitched.

"Went to Earth and got a face transplant with a Norse God in return for some witness protection from Heaven. Watched humanity. Had fun," he shrugged. There was a little spark in his eyes, similar to that mischievous spark he always had, and Crowley felt more relaxed at it. "You?" He asked. Crowley snorted.

"I, uh. Tried to get in Hell's good books, you know," he said, unaware if he should even approach the topic of Hell and demonic life. "Took credit for humans mistakes. Uh, buddied up with an angel. He's enough of a bastard to know. I think you'd like him. Uh... I designed the M25 in London."

Gabriel grimaced. "That's cruel," he said, and Crowley snickered.

"Damn right," he grinned. Gabriel nudged him with a small smirk on his lips. "Averted Armageddon. Avoided being killed by our respective superiors. Avoided being killed by Heaven again. Discussed with Lucifer." He shrugged lightly. Gabriel hummed.

"What are you going to do now?" He asked. Crowley raised an eyebrow. Gabriel gave him a look. "You can't go to Lucifer," he urged. "You can't get caught up in that mess."

Crowley fiddled with the hem of his shirt, eying the ripples in the waves ahead of them. Gabriel sighed. "Please," he insisted, and Crowley looked away. 

"I don't want to fight," he said, and Gabriel nodded, looking sad.

"Nor do I," he agreed. "We never have."

Crowley scrubbed his hands down his face, gazing out on the lake. "He misses you," he said.

"I don't doubt it," replied Gabriel. "And I miss him. But our Lucifer died, Crowley. He's not up to anything good. You know," Gabriel tilted his head upwards. "I have kept tabs on Heaven. We were never told everything."

"There was nothing to tell us, back in the Beginning. Nothing existed yet," Crowley replied, his eyebrows furrowing. Gabriel shook his head.

"The Great Plan was already in motion by the time She created us," he stated. "She seemed to know when each battle would happen, who would Fall; She knows everything, even if She isn't sure when She'll make it happen. Did you know that there's more than one Armageddon?" He inquired. "Dozens of them, actually."

"What?" Crowley gaped, his jaw falling slack. Gabriel nodded, his expression pinched.

"The antichrist was just one of them. Another one..." he trailed off and then regarded Crowley carefully. "Lucifer's reappearance is not a good thing. Stay away from him, Crowley." He turned to face forwards again, his face grim. Crowley decidedly did not like those implications and his chest felt heavy. He knew, deep down, that Lucifer was not the same person as he once was. He was not planning good, he was not the same brother Crowley wished he was. He knew that Lucifer was planning something and it would not go well. He knew that Lucifer did not really care for peace. 

Crowley looked out across the lake. "He misses you," he uttered. Gabriel sighed.

"And I miss him, too, brother. But he's not himself anymore. I don't want to see what he's become. You know what he's done."

And Crowley did know what Lucifer had done. He knew very well what he Lucifer had done since his fall, but he also knew what kind of a person Lucifer had been and that he could be. 

On the other hand, Crowley had been a good person, too, until Hell broke him and he lost a handful of decades to blind rage. Hell could break the most divine of angels, no doubt. And Lucifer had been the very first angel to Fall, and Crowley couldn't even imagine that. Being the first being to experience something so horrible, crashing into torment, utterly alone, rejected, abandoned. At least Crowley had not been left for years - or, with Hell's timeline, millennia - by himself in Hell. 

What happened to Lucifer in Hell was not well known. Of course, no one had been there, and Lucifer wasn't one to story tell, but one could assume. Lucifer had crashed into a place hand crafted by God to punish sinners. At some point, sooner or later, he had broken; turned to the very embodiment of hurt and rage and hatred. He had expanded on Hell, stolen it from God and made it his own domain, and revelled in the tortures taking place. He had created a lot of the punishments and torments, and he had created original demons. He had created the Princes of Hell, too. 

Crowley wondered just how much of Hell Lucifer had created. It was hard to think that some of the unimaginable pain that Crowley had experience had been courtesy of Lucifer. He knew that the cliffs taller than Everest from which souls, including Crowley, were thrown from to face the pain of falling and meeting the ground composed of deadly blades. He had created the Princes of Hell which had greeted the sinners in court, watching in disguise as the sinner, sat upon a burning bench, begged for mercy that they would not receive. They had spoken their judgement in one voice, booming out from nowhere and everyone, and the few of them had sat around, identical to the thousands of mannequins in the hall, hidden and unrevealed to the sinner. It was impossible to even seek them out, for it felt as if any and every thing in there could be one of them, thousands of eyes, judging. 

Perhaps, worse so was that Crowley had come to watch many of the tortures from Hell come to Heaven. Undoubtedly other demons had brought these up; brought the scolds bridle, the heretic's fork, the breaking wheel and lingchi and the rack. Crowley was familiar with too many; Hell seemed to enjoy the basis of punishing angels for 'speaking out against God'. The scold's bridle and heritic's fork became things Crowley couldn't even pronounce without gagging. 

How unjust could the Almighty become to turn Her favourite son so evil he would could create such torture, and then introduce it to frail humans? 

He scrubbed his hands down his face, shaky and sick. He did not like the implications of what Gabriel had said. Of course he knew that Lucifer had no good planned, but surely not another Armageddon.

"What are you going to do?" He asked, turning to Gabriel. His brother was intently watching the dark waves ahead of them, the way they lapped up at the shore a few feet from themselves. He looked suddenly so old and tired, looked very much how Crowley felt. 

"What do you mean?" He asked hesitantly.

"Lucifer's going to be looking for you. And now you just implied that it's prophesised that he's going to start another Armageddon. I'm surprised Michael hasn't sought me out to smite me yet for daring what I did." He dropped his head into his hands. He missed the time before the antichrist; when there was no trouble, no intense scrutiny from Hell, no talk of his past and of Raphael, and he and Aziraphale could get drunk on wine in his bookshop and dine at the Ritz. He missed that time so very dearly. 

Gabriel's jaw locked and he looked down at his hands. Beyond him, the eyes on his wings turned mournful, fearful, little tears of molten gold dripping down the curves of his feathers.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I... I think we should leave. Earth, I mean. The galaxy. There's plenty more we can go to." He spared him a glance and Crowley couldn't help but chuckle at that. It reminded him of how he had asked Aziraphale of the same thing.

"It won't work," Crowley said. "And I... I have other people that I can't leave behind." He shook his head lightly and folded his hands on his lap. Gabriel regarded him for several moments, thoughtful.

"Just tell me that you won't join Lucifer," he requested. "Promise me that. I love him as much as you do, but you know that Lucifer's changed. Don't make me think you're dead again."

Crowley's eyes fluttered closed. He supposed this was how Gabriel had felt when Michael and Lucifer first began tearing each other apart. He understood, now, very well why he had ran away. "I won't," he finally responded. He had to accept the reality of Lucifer's state, as much as it hurt. "You could come with me," he suddenly blurted, and Gabriel startled. "Come with me. It'd be safer for the both of us," he justified. 

"I..." Gabriel pressed his lips together, his fingers flexing out over the damp grass beneath him. "I have things I need to tie up," he finally said, and Crowley's lips quirked upwards. 

"You know how to find me," he said, and Gabriel inclined his head slightly. 

"I guess we shouldn't mess around much longer," said the angel with a sigh, clambering heavily onto his feet. Crowley followed suit. 

"Yes, I suppose my... friends will be worried," he said with a small laugh. Gabriel grimaced, though his lips morphed into a small smirk. 

"I'm sorry. I... didn't expect you to be like this," he admitted sheepishly, painfully. Crowley shrugged and avoided his eyes.

"Nothing we can do about it," he simply dismissed. He waved his hands out, open, in a gesture, and it felt like a python was constricting his lungs. 

When he opened his eyes, he was propped up on the building he had fallen against, no Gabriel in sight. Aziraphale was crouched by his side, mouthing something. It took a few moments for the words to register in his mind

"-ley? Crowley? Can you hear me?" He asked, frantic and worried, hovering a few inches from him. Crowley grunted, then waved his concern off.

"'m fine," he said, and then rubbed the back of his head, throbbing gently.

"What the Hell was that?" Dean asked, hovering nearby. Sam was crouched on his other side, Castiel nearby, hand positioned in a way that would make it swift should he need to slip his blade into his hand. 

"Was what?" Crowley grumbled. His hands reached beneath his glasses to rub at his eyes.

"That - that man just attacked you! After a very intense stare down, too," Aziraphale said, looking around. "And he just disappeared! Crowley, who was that? He wasn't a demon, was he?"

Crowley's eyes flickered closed, then he hauled himself to his feet. "I don't know," he lied. "Something felt off about him. Then he - well - yeah." He scratched the back of his neck, extremely uncomfortable by the amount of unbelieving eyes on him. Sam and Dean exchanged a look with Aziraphale and then Dean cleared his throat. 

"Let's go back to the bunker," he mumbled. Crowley didn't disagree, finding himself extremely quiet as they made their way back to the Impala. Sitting between two angels, he felt like he was being driven to the trial before his death sentence. 

Whether it was because he had been so exhausted lately or because he didn't want to deal with the questions, Crowley went to bed upon returning to the bunker. Claiming he felt out of it from the 'attack', he left them to their gossip about him, no doubt, and collapsed onto the bed he had been generously given, and he replayed his and Gabriel's conversation over and over in his head. He felt defeated, his gut twisting in anxiety of the rapidly approaching danger and the inability to do anything about it. 

When he awoke, it was evening and Dean was finishing his dinner, Sam cleaning the dishes. 

"Feeling any better?" Sam asked over his shoulder, his eyes pinched and scrutinising. Crowley nodded, his hands in his pockets.

"Yeah. Where's Aziraphale?" He asked. Sam quirked an eyebrow at his eagerness. With good reason, Crowley wanted to talk to Aziraphale immediately. His talk with Gabriel had been a necessity, it seemed, and he had mulled over it for the hours he'd locked himself away in the bedroom for. 

He could trust Aziraphale. Aziraphale had proven that over the time he had known him, and more so now than ever. Crowley needed Aziraphale. 

Crowley needed to tell Aziraphale everything. 

Not only did the angel deserve to know, more than anything, but Crowley needed to tell him for his own sake, too. There were risks with it, of course - Aziraphale might be horrified, or he might see him in an entirely different light. It could ruin everything. But Crowley was being selfish, putting this over everything else, and what with his stunt last night he was putting the angel in mortal danger. Crowley needed to let it out and he needed to know Aziraphale would be there with him. That he would still trust him even if he knew what Crowley had been doing these past few days, who he was, all those little white lies he had said for his own selfishness.

"Library," said Sam. "So is Castiel," he added. Crowley nodded and spun on heel, heading swiftly to the library with long strides that ate the ground beneath him. He should have expected him to be in the library, really.

He nudged the doors opened, spotted Aziraphale and Castiel standing tensely at one end of the room, and he heard Sam and Dean following behind him. He made his way towards the angels, and then -

He stopped. Involuntarily, for something seized his body and refused to let him step any further. When he looked down, the perfectly, freshly painted markings of a Devil's Trap stared up at him.

The library doors closed. 

"We need to talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! I want to say a thank you to all the support I've received for this verse - I do really appreciate it. I'm glad you enjoy my take on it and my own twists and lore I've shoved in self-indulgently. I hope my appreciation makes up for another cliff hanger <3


	7. In Your Homeland They All Call You Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of different ideas for this chapter. A painful amount. But I much prefer the end to the chapter, and the end of the chapter wouldn't happen had I chosen any other idea, so. Sacrifices, I suppose. Any of you guys that like Lucifer may be happy about this idea compared to the others I was going to choose from.
> 
> The most frustrating thing about writing this is that I usually publish chapters anywhere from 11pm-2am. Right on the verge of the next day, but too early to be published as the next day. It irritates me.
> 
> Enjoy!

Confusion festered throughout Crowley's being as he turned his head side to side to regard everyone, stepping closer around him slowly, like a predator stalking its trapped prey and closing in for the kill.

"What the fuck?" He said, looking to the Devil's Trap by his feet. He took a few steps back until he was standing in the middle, away from the gut turning power written around the circle's perimeter. "What's with the trap? Aziraphale," he turned to the angel, seeking him out. "What's going on?"

Aziraphale looked gutted. Ashamed. Painfully sad. He had known this was happening. "We just - it's just, they think it's a necessary precaution -"

"A precaution for what?" Crowley interrupted. "Me?" He recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "You think I'd _hurt_ you."

Aziraphale shook his head vigorously. "No, no, absolutely not. I know you never would, my dear." His eyes flicked to Sam and Dean. Crowley turned on them. 

"And where in the nine rings of Hell did you get the idea that I'd hurt someone?" He hissed, betrayal blooming like a bruise in his chest. 

"Demons are unpredictable liars," Dean said, and he seemed rather detached; as if he had been uncomfortable with this and had to detach himself to thoroughly go through with this. Sam, too, looked rather sad and uncomfortable, his jaw ticking. Crowley pressed his lips together. 

"What are you doing?" He ground out. As time went on and no one made a move to break the trap, panic and fear sparked up in his chest. Tendrils of it tied around his chest; around his ribs and his lungs and his heart, tightening slowly like a vice. 

"We need to talk," repeated Dean, and Crowley interrupted him before he could continue.

"That doesn't require trapping a person," he hissed. 

"Who was that person today?" He asked. "Someone strong presenting as a human perfectly. Don't know many things about that."

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "What? You think I know? That I planned to get slammed against a wall?" He retorted. "Oh, yeah. Got a little bored, decided it'd be fun to be attacked." He rolled his eyes, masking his anxieties with anger. 

"You were rather eager to get a case," Dean commented. He was strolling around the circle like a hunter, feigning nonchalance. His eyes flicked to Castiel; Castiel, who looked serious and determined to go through with this, but looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Crowley tipped his head to the side, interrupting once more.

"You trap all your buds like this?" He inquired. He looked to Castiel. "What was it? Hellfire? Holy oil?" 

The tick of Castiel's jaw told him he had hit the right spot. Dean clicked his fingers to bring his attention away from him. "You know, Castiel's a seraphim," he said. "That's pretty up there in the pecking order, isn't it? Has a ton of perks. Like the ability to differentiate between human and non-human things - creatures, powers. Just like the perfectly burnt grass a few minutes from the bunker that occurred during the time you left for a walk, at the same time that space put on a little show. Shortly after two angels targeting you were killed by something strong."

Crowley scoffed. "I was literally in this bunker when they died," he said. "And demons can't play with stars."

"I'm not saying you did everything," Dean continued. "But I'm saying that you know about it. Know exactly who did it, maybe. Know who that one person today was." 

Crowley regarded Dean, forcing himself to take several calming breaths. He looked to Aziraphale.

"Aziraphale. Let me out," he said, trying to put some force behind his voice. "There's no need for this. I'm not _dangerous-"_ his stomach boiled with nausea. When had he ever hurt Aziraphale? Truly? Never. When had he ever hurt a human? Never. 

"I know, Crowley," Aziraphale replied, and it sounded as if he was begging Crowley for forgiveness; his voice torn and face wrecked with shame. He turned to the trio, shaking his head. "I told you this isn't necessary-"

"And if he is working with Heaven or Hell? Been using us? Using _you_?" Dean replied. "We can't take the risk."

Crowley scoffed, incredulous. "Both Heaven and Hell would much rather see me dead than agree to work with me," he stated. His teeth ground together, furious at the accusations. "I would never," he hissed out, " _never_ hurt Aziraphale. How dare you." He turned on his heels, away from their eyes, and shook his head as if it would calm him or ground him. Did Aziraphale believe that? Did Aziraphale think Crowley would ever use, ever hurt him?

The thought made him feel sick. 

All he had had since the beginning of humanity was Aziraphale. The only source of safety and security, of opportunity to prove and be seen as something more than a dweller of Hell, had been Aziraphale. When he saw no hope, Aziraphale brought him some. Crowley needed Aziraphale. He needed him more than humans needed air, more than an angel needed its wings. 

_You love that angel, don't you?_

Yes. Crowley loved Aziraphale. Crowley loved Aziraphale more than a demon was capable of loving - more than an angel loved, surely. He loved fiercer than a hurricane and stronger than a crashing tsunami, wholly encompassing and devouring, burning like a dazzling bright forest fire. He could create a whole new Heaven from his love, and he would if Aziraphale asked him to. With Aziraphale by his side, Crowley was unstoppable, invincible. Each day was an opportunity to dive into it headfirst with Aziraphale. Dining at the Ritz with champagne and classical musical echoing around them felt like the occasion had been moulded just for the two of them; the choir picked just for them, the setting melting to their preference, for nothing else mattered. And on top of that; they didn't need it. Lounging in Aziraphale's cluttered bookshop, listening to the choir of pages turning, his mind buzzing, drunk off Aziraphale's presence; life could not possibly get any better. 

Things that Crowley had experienced before suddenly became new. Sounds and tastes and textures and sights; when Aziraphale was there, they exploded into life; blossoming into something breathtakingly beautiful. Aziraphale's presence soothed his soul; brought any inner turmoil he had to a soft stop, interrupting it with peace and security and safety. Simultaneously, Aziraphale made Crowley invincible and strong and indestructible, and so, so weak; Crowley could take on anything should Aziraphale be there by his side, but Aziraphale stole his breath and made his knees weak, his heart stutter. 

Yes. Crowley loved Aziraphale. 

Had he ever done something to convince him that he might ever hurt him, Crowley did not know what he would do with himself. 

"Let him out," Aziraphale said. His angel cleared his throat and rose his head, a steely look in his previously haunted eyes. "I will not stand for you tormenting him like this any longer. You told me you wanted him to talk and you're antagonising him." He came closer; a knight in the form of beige suits and hair composed of clouds, gentle, wrinkled eyes and calloused hands, come to save Crowley. Conflict passed through the room like a ripple of lightning, sharp and tense, and yet no move to stop Aziraphale was made. He crouched down by the dark markings and ran his finger through it, cleanly severing the circle, and the heavy weight in Crowley's bones disappeared. Aziraphale stood again and Crowley reached out to grab his arm. He tilted his head in a way that made his glasses slide down his nose. He needed Aziraphale to see him, no shield in place, no disguise. He needed him to see him genuine. Needed to remind Aziraphale that he was a demon, and that he would understood should he replace that line.

Aziraphale did not.

"I would never hurt you," Crowley told him, words grated on the roughness of his throat. "I would never."

Aziraphale smiled. Endless patience, endless forgiveness, endless trust. "I know you never would, my dear boy. I know." 

Crowley held him for a moment like a lifeline. Aziraphale did not waver, did not step back or step down. He did, however, step aside; and he brought Crowley with him, out of the Devil's Trap and onto clean ground. He, too, stood ever so slightly in front of Crowley as if daring the Winchesters to go through him. Crowley did not let go and Aziraphale didn't make him. Slowly, he gathered himself. 

"What do you think my answers to those questions are?" He asked, gruff. 

"We don't know," said Sam, and he took a step forward, slipping back into negotiator. "But something is happening, Crowley. We need to know."

Crowley locked his jaw and pondered his options.

He had been willing to take Aziraphale out into the surrounding woods, look out on the sunset, perhaps, and explain himself. And he would point out to the rising stars and explain how he was Raphael, how he had created what they were looking at. Now, he was on guard. He felt like he was being forced into this, being backed into a corner. 

He was tired of running. So, so tired. 

"The person who attacked me was Gabriel," he stated, slumping in defeat. "The archangel."

Beside him, Aziraphale gave him an odd look. "That was not Gabriel, my dear," he said, confused. "You know what Gabriel looks like."

Crowley shook his head. "It's... it's a long story. Can we please sit down?" He requested, and they managed to push away their curiosity for long enough to gather around the table in the bunker and to boil the kettle, dishing out tea and coffee. 

"So what's up with Gabriel-Not-Gabriel?" Dean asked. "And how would you know?"

Crowley gazed into the cup of tea hugged between his hands, steam floating from its surface. He had been unsure whether to add an absurd amount of sugar to try and soothe himself with the sweetness, or whether he should keep it bitter to reflect his sour mood. In the end, he settled on an unhappy medium; not sweet enough to be nice on his tongue and yet too sweet to be responsibly bitter. Akin to drinking room temperature water, or trying to eat soup with a fork. 

"I was an angel, once," he began. "A long time ago." His eyes flicked towards Aziraphale, right by his side, their knees knocking together. He wasn't pressing, wasn't judging, wasn't angry or mad at the revelation of Crowley hiding things. Not yet, at least. Simply curious. Simply concerned. His eyes flicked shamefully to his tea once more. He did not deserve Aziraphale. "And I... I, ah, may have lied when I said I didn't remember anything before the Fall. I do. I remember everything, I think. Most things at least."

"One would think that would be a good thing," Sam commented curiously. Crowley smiled sardonically.

"One would," he uttered. "But is it better or worse to make an angel Fall and forget who they were, or make them Fall and remember everything they lost?" His head tipped to the side, a tired, weary parody of a smile on his bitter lips. "I was an angel before many angels were created. A while before Earth was created. Long before humans. In that time, there were four archangels. Michael, Lucifer, Raphael and Gabriel. Gabriel, he never liked fighting. Gabriel loved his family so much so that one might think he was the angel of love instead of tricks." His lips quirked ever so slightly. He didn't dare look up from his hands and his tea. "And then Michael and Lucifer began to fight. Supposedly, Gabriel helped in the fight to put Lucifer in the cage, and he's served Heaven since."

"How is that not what happened?" Castiel asked. He sounded intense, as if he took the lies of Heaven as a personal hurt. Maybe he did. 

"Gabriel didn't help put Lucifer in the cage," he stated with a shrug. "Gabriel wasn't in Heaven for that. Gabriel ran away because he couldn't watch his family tear one another apart and God not do a thing. He ran away from Heaven and to Earth, and he hid here with the help of some other God. Loki, I think. He's been here since. Heaven couldn't take the hit. Lucifer Fell, Raphael _died,_ Gabriel was gone; Michael was the only archangel left. Too detrimental to the running of Heaven, so they plucked some other angel up, promoted him, and now we know him as the lovely Gabriel today."

Silence lapped around them, confusion more so radiating off Aziraphale and Crowley. Aziraphale spoke up first.

"Then why did he attack you?" He asked. "I... I'm afraid I really don't understand." He scrubbed a hand down his face, pushing his hair back. Crowley grimaced.

"I suppose he thought I was a demon pretending to be the angel I once was. He got mad. We had an enjoyable chat in which he threatened to smite should I be a demon playing a prank on him. Thankfully, he didn't." He waved his hands out in a gesture and then sipped his tea. 

"And why would he think that? Who... who were you?" Aziraphale asked, cautious. Crowley continued to sip his tea for an obnoxiously long amount of time. Finally, he lifted his head. 

"It doesn't matter," he stated. 

"You said that when you passed out, you were having memories. Obviously not, then," Dean said. "What was that about?"

Crowley coughed awkwardly. Beneath the table, his leg bounced anxiously, up, down, up, down, up, down. 

"Crowley?" Urged Aziraphale. "Were you hurt?"

Crowley shook his head. "No, no. Look - does it really matter?" He snapped. Dean raised his eyebrows.

"It does now."

Crowley dropped his head into his hands. He mumbled incoherently beneath his breath.

"What?" Sam asked, leaning forwards.

Humans often said that it was best to do things like ripping a bandage off, right? "Lucifer's out of Hell," he repeated, rushed and tumbling off is tongue. 

"What?" Castiel breathed out, his face slack in shock and growing horror. 

"Lucifer is out of Hell," he said once more. "He... pulled my consciousness to him." He shrugged. "So I passed out. He was... insistent on seeing our true forms, so I suppose that made me shift slightly here as well." He kept his eyes on the table, fearful of what he might see should he look up. 

"You've been talking to Lucifer," Aziraphale murmured, horrified. Crowley's head shot up. 

"What? No. _No_. You say that like I've been - been conspiring with him. No. He forced me to talk to him. I couldn't do anything," he defended, shaking his head. Aziraphale's eyes were wide and frightful and his legs stopped touching Crowley's. The gap between them suddenly felt like a chasm, growing wider, and Crowley scrambled to hold it together again. "It's - no, never. He wanted to talk with me, I couldn't ssstop him, I-"

"What did you talk about?" Sam asked, stopping his fumbling over his words. Crowley's wide eyes turned to him and he hissed in a breath.

"What?"

"What did you two talk about, then?" Gentle, giving him a chance to explain. Crowley latched onto it and blinked rapidly.

"I - we spoke. He's... he's angry. At Michael and God. He thought I'd understand, being Fallen. It was mostly me being angry with him." His lips quirked. "I tried to hit him. Not a smart move in hindsight. He just said that he... he wants my support. He wants to talk to Gabriel, too, but he couldn't find him. Gabriel knows Lucifer is out and doesn't want to talk to him, either. I... Gabriel knows more about what Lucifer wants now more than I do."

"You're not working with him?" Said Aziraphale. Crowley shot him a look.

"No. He'll probably go after Michael; they always fight. They hate one another. I just missed a war. I don't want to fight," he said defensively. Crowley sipped his tea, soothing his dry throat. He didn't like this. He felt like he was being judged, awaiting his sentence. He felt as if he had done something _bad._ He hadn't, though. Not really. He had discouraged Lucifer from any violence, disagreed to fight, insisted he promised safety for them all. 

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Aziraphale asked. "Do you - do you not trust me?"

Crowley's eyes shot to him. "Angel, don't say that," he said. "I do - I do. Of course I do. I - I do-"

"Then why did you never tell me?" He asked. He sounded thoroughly upset, trying to come to terms with the extent of the lies Crowley had told. Crowley bit his lip until he thought it might bleed.

"It was a long time ago, Aziraphale," he murmured. "That angel died. It doesn't matter."

"It matters enough to make two archangels seek you out," Dean commented. Crowley set his tea down so he could drop his head into his hands. 

He could not simply say; _I was Raphael before I Fell. I've been talking to Lucifer for days and it was me that sought Gabriel out, not the other way around. Michael surely felt that little star stunt I did and will want to wipe me out of existence. Lucifer wants Gabriel and I to fight. The Winchesters are supposed to die at some point and another Armageddon is on its way. I haven't told you this because I procrastinated the reality of it._

Well, he could. It just wouldn't go down well. 

"Who were you?" Castiel asked, low, eyes intense. Crowley thought Castiel knew. He had been suspicious since the beginning, and he no doubt did know. He seemed to be looking for confirmation on his suspicions. 

Crowley looked Heavenward. 

"It can't be that big a deal," said Dean, seemingly exasperated with dancing around the subject. Crowley shot him a glare over his sunglasses. 

"Heaven said I died," Crowley said, rolling the words around in his mouth slowly. "Said I was killed. Having three out of four archangels oppose Heaven was unthinkable. Better to make an example of one, fake the other, and kill the second one," he stated with bitter amusement. Castiel slumped back in his chair, eyes distant, and Aziraphale and Dean still seemed to be catching up. Crowley heaved a sigh. "Raphael never died. Raphael Fell and they said I died."

"Raphael," echoed Aziraphale. "Archangel of healing. Crowley..." The angel trailed off, unsure of what to say, and Crowley too fell silent. 

"Raphael is dead," said Castiel, and Crowley laughed.

"I've literally no reason to lie about that," he stated, drumming his fingers on the table. "I could recount every star I made. Every nebula, every galaxy. Every conversation with the Almighty..." He trailed off, sucking in a breath. He could have created God Herself and he still wouldn't have been good enough for Her. Behind him, his wings stretched out; little weak remnants of what they once were. Before, he had had multiple sets of gorgeous glittering wings, whiter than Michael's. They had been dazzling to look at. He had no doubt that, while a human could look upon an angel's wings if manifested, his would have been too bright. Too pure; completely untainted, uncorrupt, for they were what health and peace stemmed from. Two pairs emerging from his back, a smaller pair from his head which framed his halo, a river of life above his head, flowing, eternal, unbroken. 

His wings had been huge. Third only to Michael and Lucifer, they had been large enough to shield innocents from any harm; large and sleek and soft and delicate. Michael's and Lucifer's and Gabriel's - their wings had been built with battle in mind in addition to their own purpose. Raphael's had been created for peace and serenity and healing, power lying more so in the feathers than the muscles like most. 

Now, his wings were only but a few handfuls of his old feathers. Burnt and singed and shrunk, two minor sets torn off; they were disgraced. Nonetheless, they stretched out as if they still held their old size, and his mottled grace flared. The lights around them flickered and fizzed, and had Crowley been looking over his shoulder he might have seen the shadows of two pairs of wings; skeletons, with curling feathers falling off their corpses. He might have seen the shadow of his halo, shattered and leaking, flowing down like tears rather than a perfect river. But he wasn't, and he didn't. He saw the way everyone else's eyes widened and stared at the wall. 

Crowley did not, truthfully, know how to feel about his past. He both wanted to yell that he was _not a demon._ He was an _archangel._ He had created things, helped prepare the universe for humans to live in it. He was _holy, divine._ Not some mindless, blood thirsty demon.

Wasn't he?

At the same time, he wanted to kill Raphael completely. Lose all memories of him, forget it all. 

But that was his punishment, wasn't it? Doomed to long for what he once had, doomed to never have it again. It's what he deserved, after all, for daring to oppose the Almighty.

"My dear, I'm... I'm sorry." Aziraphale sounded unsure whether or not he should apologise. He sounded unsure of speaking at all. 

"'s not your fault," he said, turning to the angel. "You believe me, right?"

Aziraphale startled, lips moving wordlessly. "Of - of course. I... yes. I believe you. I..." He turned to look at his hands. "It's just extremely hard to think about... Gabriel is an imposer. Lucifer is here and tormenting you. You... you're an archangel. Good Heavens." He uttered something to himself beneath his breath, his hands clasped tightly, white knuckled, upon his lap. 

"I was going to explain myself. I was going to tell you, but... I don't want to change things. And it does. I know it does." His leg bounced, a fast, furious rhythm beneath the table, expelling nervous energy. 

"It doesn't," Aziraphale rushed to say, and he moved so that his knees knocked Crowley's once more. Something warm seeped into him, right to his shaking bones, and he forced his tense muscles to relax. "It just... I didn't expect this from Heaven, and not from Michael," he admitted. Crowley simply nodded. Up until recently, Aziraphale had trusted Heaven and his superiors as any angel should. Crowley didn't blame him; it seemed Heaven excelled in the art of brainwashing. By the time an angel became aware of the reality of Heaven, it was too late. 

"It doesn't matter anyway," dismissed Crowley with the shake of his head. His hand clenched and unclenched over his knee, clammy and shaky. 

"It does," said Aziraphale. "It does, because it's _you_ -"

"Not anymore, Angel," Crowley interrupted, sharp. "Not anymore." He stood up from his chair, abrupt, his chair scraping harshly on the floor as he did so. "I answered your questions and without lashing out like a mindless _demon,_ how surprising. No Devil's Trap needed." He spread his hands out in a sarcastic gesture. 

"I didn't think archangels could... Fall," commented Sam. Crowley whirled around to face him and then sucked in a breath.

"Yeah, well. Lucifer was the Almighty's favourite angel once," he stated with a look. "Now, with all your lovely questions answered..." He slid a few steps to the side. 

"What'd you do?" Asked Dean, leaning back in his chair. Crowley quirked an eyebrow and the hunter continued. "To get the boot out?" Sam gave his brother a look and Crowley stared him down, his heart in his throat.

What had he done? 

Crowley swallowed, his tongue heavy and dry in his mouth. He remembered initial warnings and punishments, how Michael had become more cold towards him. 

_"You know what you're doing is wrong. You know what Lucifer is doing is wrong. You cannot stray off the path She has created for us, Raphael. Think about what you're doing."_

_"I am not opposing Her will or Her plans, brother. But you cannot believe that everything She has planned is fair-"_

_"If it is Her will, it doesn't have to be."_

"I-" he took a breath and looked away. "I spent too much time with Lucifer. I didn't understand why She was doing what She was. I should have kept my mouth shut." He shook his head to himself, his jaw tight, shameful. He knew better than to question the Almighty, and yet he had pestered Her with questions. _Why, why, why?_ He had only ever wanted to know why. Lucifer had only ever wanted to know how - how She expected them to love something more than Her, to submit to weak creatures. Gabriel had only ever wanted his family to act like a family again.

He was eager to leave, suddenly. To be by himself and avoid any more prying questions, avoid Castiel and Aziraphale. He wanted to see Gabriel again; be whisked off to some beautiful place on Earth and stay there for hours, talking to his brother. Was it a cowardly move? Perhaps, but it always seemed to work in the end. 

His wish came true. A sudden twisting in his gut and in his head and he stumbled, throwing a hand out to catch the edge of the table. He muttered an "oh, shit" when realisation hit, and if Aziraphale called his name he did not hear it for everything was going black. 

_"You seem distressed."_

_Crowley let his eyes slip shut to avoid facing his brother. His heart was still stuttering beneath his worn and weary ribcage, anxious and unsettled, and Lucifer's sudden presence brought forth a twitch in his hand. "I am," he said._

_"Oh? How so?"_

_"They know," he said. Lucifer prowled close, his presence intense, burning, churning. He inquired carefully._

_"Know what exactly, brother?"_

_"Of me," he said hurriedly. He still had yet to open his eyes. There was a cool breeze upon his cheek like a cold caress and if he listened beyond the rushing of his blood, Crowley could hear the way snow crunched beneath his feet. His breath created little clouds, forming from his parted lips, and when he finally did open his eyes it was to greet the sight above him; a clear, dark night sky with ripples of light stretching out for miles; greens and purples and pinks, shimmering and shining brightly. "Of Raphael."_

_Lucifer was next to him, studying him. "And how well did that go?" He asked._

_"I... I was going to tell Aziraphale myself," he stated. He didn't risk looking at him for fear that his eyes would give away the fact that he had given up Lucifer's secret so easily, if The Devil didn't know already. "I suppose I'd been acting weird. They had a Devil's Trap set up."_

_Lucifer clicked his tongue in disapproval. His hand burned Crowley's shoulder. "Still with those Winchesters, huh?" He mused. "Humans are no good, brother. You know this. You can trust humans less than you can trust Heaven."_

_Crowley snorted and closed his eyes for a brief moment. "I'm surprised they let me out of it at all," he admitted. "I half expected them to bring out some holy water and start exorcising me for answers."_

_"Well, I couldn't let that happen," said Lucifer with a hum. He dropped his hand and tilted his head forwards. "When I said that you should find Gabriel, I didn't expect you to do that."_

_Crowley shrugged. "Nor would Gabriel," he said, catching himself before he could word it to sound as if he had met Gabriel. Gabriel wanted to stay hidden, and he had to respect that. "I'm afraid to say he's not shown. Yet."_

_"Shame," Lucifer sighed. His foot scuffed some snow aside. "I'd love to see him again."_

_"I'm sure he misses you greatly. But you know Gabriel doesn't want confrontation or violence again," he said. "None of us do."_

_Lucifer gave him a pointed look. Crowley continued. "I hope he'll show himself to me soon, but I can't promise anything other than Michael." Upon Lucifer offering him a curious twitch of his eyebrows, he continued once more. "Michael wants me dead. You know that. More so now than ever, no doubt. Daring to play as Raphael again." He snorted and shook his head. "'s only a matter of time."_

_"And have you told your... friends of that?"_

_Crowley shook his head once. "No," he replied. He didn't expand on that, for he didn't want to expand on the selfishness behind his reasoning on not telling them that Michael would, no doubt, be coming down on him with all of Heaven's fury. It was dangerous, and he was putting them all in danger being by them, but he did not want to leave. He did not want to leave Aziraphale, and the idea of taking on Michael by himself terrified him, truthfully. Crowley would prefer Lucifer's wrath than Michael's any day. It was an incredibly selfish move, but he was a demon; selfish was one of the many traits he was supposed to be, was it not?_

_Lucifer hummed. "I suppose I know why," he said. Crowley nodded and Lucifer fell silent, eying him. "You retained some of your grace when you fell," he stated. Crowley shifted awkwardly._

_"Not all of it was corrupted," he answered stiffly. "Most of it, though. If it had been all of it, I wouldn't still have these things." His head jerked back to the singed remains of his wings, tucked self consciously against his back. Lucifer looked thoughtful, his head tipped to the side like a curious puppy. Crowley took the time to study him as his brother returned the favour._

_Lucifer's vessel had gotten worse, and his wings better. They were almost complete, almost exactly as they once were if not for the odd patch where feathers had yet to grow in. There was no more exposed bone, however, no exposed muscle. They had grown to their original size again, awe-striking things growing from his form. Meanwhile, the vessel in which his grace festered was displaying the hardships of bearing his grace; blisters bursting hot around his skin, skin melting away in patches, leaving painful looking sores. Crowley grimaced._

_"Your vessel," he said. "Is there not a way to fix it?"_

_Lucifer turned to face forwards. "Not this thing," he said. "Unless I wanted to lose some power, which doesn't really sound that nice to me, if you were to ask me. There's another vessel out there, though; one powerful enough to hold me at full power." His lips quirked ever so slightly. Crowley inched forwards._

_"Are you not seeking it out?"_

_"Well," laughed Lucifer. "I was going to wait until you had left his side. Didn't think you'd want to be there."_

_"Who?" Asked Crowley, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. "Aziraphale?" He asked, horrified, and Lucifer laughed once more._

_"Almighty, no. One of the Winchesters - Sam, I believe it is. Written all in the paperwork Downstairs," he said. "Apparently prophesised long before he was even born yet. And, of course, I think it's actually due to happen in a few years rather than now. My son was supposed to banish me back to Hell, after all." His hand scratched along his peeling jaw, thoughtful, and Crowley's stomach twisted itself into knots._

_"Sam?" He repeated, incredulous. He shook his head with vigour. "He wouldn't survive that. You'd kill him whether you meant to or not."_

_Lucifer gave him a look. "That's why I was trying to wait," he stated, jabbing a finger at him. "And, well, I can't exactly help it. Humans are weak. They die. It's the circle of life as the Almighty intended."_

_Despite what had taken place hardly an hour earlier, Crowley couldn't accept it. Sam had been welcoming when they first met; friendly and polite, but cautious enough that it was respectable in Crowley's books. Yes, the hunter had earned his respect. Crowley couldn't let him simply die. "You can't kill Sam."_

_"What else am I suppose to do?" His brother snapped, waving his hands helplessly like a frustrated child._

_"I don't know! Make a vessel of your own!" Responded Crowley. "You have enough power, don't you?"_

_"No." Lucifer scoffed and shook his head. "It would take it all out of me to create a human itself without seducing a woman and waiting several years." Crowley's nose turned up. "Let alone one naturally strong enough to hold me. It's prophecy, brother."_

_"And of Dean? He's fiercely protective of Sam. He wouldn't let Sam accept you, if Sam even did."_

_Lucifer rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm sure you'll be no happier to learn that Dean's in this mess, too. The Winchesters go back a long time, brother. A long, long time. Sam was chosen to be my vessel for my battle, and Dean was chosen to be Michael's."_

_"What?" Crowley reeled back, eyes blowing wide._

_"Have they not explained why Zachariah was after them, too?" Inquired Lucifer. "Zachariah had been sent down a while ago to try and get Dean to say yes to Michael. Proved unsuccessful, and of course, Zachariah is dead now. Perhaps Michael will come down themself. Kill two birds - Hell - kill five birds with one stone. Get rid of the traitorous angels, get rid of Raphael once and for all, get rid of my vessel and take Dean. It's a prime opportunity for Michael, really, all of you cooped up in the same space."_

_Crowley's blood turned cold. They had unintentionally cornered themselves, lined themselves up for slaughter. His heart that he didn't really even need pounded furiously against his bones. Lucifer hummed._

_"Of course, I've already told you, though. I don't want any harm to come to you, nor to Aziraphale and not to Castiel. And I don't want Michael to get to Dean, and if Sam cooperated with me; well, he would survive for longer than he would as a human as long as he could learn to share his body. But I don't know what dear ol' Michael's planning, and I don't actually know where you lot are; that warding's damn strong." His face screwed up. He must have tried to track Crowley down before and been unable to. Crowley didn't know if that was good or bad._

_"What are you saying?" He asked._

_"Well, I'm saying that should Michael suddenly be distracted, it wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing." He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe I'd even get to talk to Castiel, too. Do you think he'd like that?"_

_Crowley shook his head. "No, I don't think so. No offence, but everyone is rather convinced you're Hellbent on tearing the world apart."_

_Lucifer heaved a dramatic sigh. "Well, at least the reputation works well for a fear factor," he said lightly, a small smirk teasing on his lips._

_Crowley huffed a laugh. "I think I'm in this too deep to even try and ignore it now," he muttered. Lucifer clapped him on the back._

_"The joys of Heaven," he drawled. Crowley sighed._

_"When we... when we first spoke, Lucifer. You said I didn't need forgiveness."_

_"I did," he confirmed, curious. "What about it? I was telling the truth."_

_Crowley waved his hand in favour of words. "I don't have enough power to distract Michael. I'd be dead within seconds. Minutes, if Michael wanted to monologue dramatically."_

_Lucifer let out a little "ah" with realisation. His lips curved upwards and he moved to stand in front of Crowley, finally forcing him to stare at him, to finally meet his eyes. "Oh, you don't need forgiveness for some of that power back," he tutted. He held up one hand and then set it on Crowley's chest, right above his heart. It slowed, stopped racing so fast, calming beneath the touch. "You've still got your own archangel grace in you. Not as much as you once had, maybe, but you've got something else to make up for it."_

_Crowley turned his nose up. "A demonic thing doesn't much make up that of an archangel's grace," he stated._

_"Not if you don't know how to use it, brother," grinned Lucifer. "And a little jumpstart from another archangel does wonders for powers." He raised his eyebrows and Crowley felt his stomach twist once more._

_"What - what d'you mean?" He stammered. Lucifer's hand slid up from his heart to grip his jaw and tilt his head down slightly._

_"I take care of my own," he said. "I wouldn't send my little brother out to face Michael if I wasn't one hundred percent certain that he'd come out unscathed. If he couldn't hold his own. Plus, it'd be funny. Give Michael a right shock, wouldn't it?" He mused, a sparkle of childish mischief in his eyes for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I'd give you a little bit of my own grace. Only a little, for I fear too much would be too strong, even for you. And I won't lie, I'm sure it'd hurt. My grace is the exact opposite of holy these days. But it's mine." He said it as if that alone explained it and the power his grace held. And it did._

_"That could kill me."_

_Lucifer scoffed, loud and mocking. "Almighty, no. It most certainly would not. If I gave you my entire grace, then yes, but I'm afraid I'm rather selfish and I'd like to keep it. Just a little." He eyed something over his shoulders. "Even enough that you might get all your wings back. I'd never do anything to hurt you. You know that. Don't be an idiot."_

_Crowley hesitated. Suddenly, he missed Gabriel. Pacifist Gabriel who never would have gotten into such a mess. Crowley didn't believe in luck, but he was inclined to believe he had created bad luck, for it seemed to haunt him everywhere. One might argue that this was not bad luck, however._

_"I don't want to fight," he repeated, firm. Lucifer smiled._

_"I'm not asking you to," he stated. He dropped his hand. "Think about it. Think fast, if you can. Couple days sound ideal?" He patted his shoulder. "I'm afraid I can't do it in this state," his hand waved around them, "for I'd have to see you in the flesh to do it, but all you need is to get out of that damn warding and utter my name when you're ready, huh? Sound fair?"_

_Crowley's forked tongue slid across his dry lips. "I - I suppose so."_

_Lucifer's smile was bright and genuine. "Good. Think about it, brother. Praying that it goes well, then none of your little friends would even be hurt! Even if I don't like the fact they trapped you."_

_Crowley shuddered at the darker tone to the end of the sentence. "Nor do I," he agreed. He opened his mouth, perhaps to defend them, but nothing came out. He could respect the way they had defended themselves when they first met him and Aziraphale. He could respect the fact that they would do what was necessary should either of them be a threat, and he respected the bravery that burned in the two humans and the rogue angel. But Crowley had not presented himself as a threat, had he? He couldn't respect that move today._

_Lucifer turned to the aurora above. "Think Gabriel will show himself?" He asked conversationally. Crowley shrugged._

_"Who knows."_

_Lucifer tipped his head ever so slightly. "I'd hope so. I guess I've held you long enough."_

_Crowley quirked an eyebrow and Lucifer turned on him. He clamped a hand fondly on Crowley's neck and grinned. "Call me soon."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started writing this with the intention to make Lucifer pop up in the bunker and continue to toe the line of villain and not-quite-villain, ended up going entirely for not-quite-villain again. I'm really just conflicting myself with each chapter. I had many takes for this chapter; so, so many. I like the ending to it, still iffy on the whole Devil's Trap scene, but then the ending wouldn't be if I had followed any other idea.
> 
> Also, I want to add more to this verse. I'd finish this story first, of course, but I was contemplating the idea of another story more centred around Aziraphale and Crowley kicking ass as bad but well-meaning hunters with the boys. Is that something people would be interested in after this?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Feel free to let me know what you thought! If you ever want to discuss more, or whatever, I'm on Tumblr @veteranklaus.


	8. Fall Into The Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is there a necessary word limit to reach before any hint of romantic intention for a fic to be classed as slow burn? Who knows.
> 
> Posted early! Enjoy!

"-ley? Crowley, can you hear me? Good Heavens, you need to stop doing that!"

Crowley peeled open his eyes to greet the blur of beige that was Aziraphale and he groaned. "Not my fault," he mumbled, and then made to sit up, for he was once again on the floor. He found that he was waking up like this too many times for his liking. Aziraphale helped guide him back onto his feet with a hand on his elbow, the other on his back. 

"Lucifer again?" Asked Dean, urgent, and Crowley grimaced.

"Uh..." His tongue ran along his teeth. "No. It was Gabriel," he lied, waving them off. "Not Lucifer." At least it let some tension bleed out of the room, an audible sigh leaving Dean's lips. 

"What'd he want?" Dean asked gruffly. He took a few steps to the side, watching as Crowley smoothed his clothes out. "Something important enough to make you faint, huh?"

Crowley's head tipped side to side. "No, not really," he lied again. He scrubbed a hand down his face and tried not to look at any of them lest it would make him blurt everything out. He turned to Aziraphale instead and reached his hand out to grab his sleeve. "C'mon. I'm tired." 

Aziraphale's eyebrows drew together as if to question what any of that had to do with him, but he didn't voice his thoughts. Crowley smiled at the lingering trio. "Any more questions can wait until dinner. I'm tired."

Aziraphale settled himself on the edge of the bed while Crowley locked the door behind them before joining him, gracefully collapsing onto the mess of blankets. He pulled one of the pillows to him, propping his head onto it beside the angel's thigh, and studied him. He was sitting up with his hands clasped together on his lap, fiddling with a loose thread on the sleeve of his clothes. He looked conflicted on what to say, what thoughts to give voice to first. Crowley nudged his thigh.

"Go on, then," he said. "Talk. Ask. I know you want to."

A sigh fled past his lips and Aziraphale looked from the thread to Crowley. "It's just a lot to think about," he stated. "I... just hope that your hesitation wasn't because of something I ever did-"

"What? Of course not," interrupted Crowley, lifting his head from the pillow. "No. I just..." He sighed and turned onto his back. He tore off his sunglasses, setting them aside on the bed and looking up at the ceiling above them. It could do with another coat of paint, he thought. "Falling from Heaven in general is shameful. Being an archangel and Falling is terrible. Disgraceful." His lips curled distastefully from his teeth, his eyes narrowed. "I would have expected you to be more disgusted in Raphael for Falling rather than feeling sorry."

Aziraphale's hand settled on his arm. "I would never," he said, soft. 

"It's just how it is," replied Crowley, continuing on. "I moved on from it, y'know. I'm not that angel anymore. I never will be. I never will be. I'm fine with that. I've moved on. I just want to be who I am now," he stated. "It's not that I didn't want to tell you, or that I didn't trust you. I was actually coming to tell you before, you know. That." 

Aziraphale's cheeks flushed warm, his eyes dancing away guiltily. "I - I am still sorry. I was-"

"Scared. Of me."

"What? No! I was - no! Of course not," Aziraphale rushed to say, shaking his head. "No. I was scared for you. I thought - I thought that perhaps Heaven or Hell was messing with you. I didn't understand what was happening." 

Crowley watched him, careful and quiet. Aziraphale spoke up again. "Do you... ever miss Heaven?"

Crowley hummed. "I used to," he admitted. "Back in the beginning, and whatnot. Now? Not at all. It's become quite the mess."

Aziraphale's lips curled upwards. "It has," he agreed. They fell into a brief silence, Aziraphale's eyes once more on his lap. 

"Have I ever scared you?" Asked Crowley, hesitant, as if the words did not really want to leave his lips. He feared the answer. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes.

"No." His head shook. "No. You... you confuse me more than anything, Crowley," he settled on, his eyes turned to Crowley. "But I've never feared you. Not in the Beginning, not now."

Crowley hummed and turned his head upwards again. "Not even as a snake?" 

Aziraphale smiled ever so slightly. "No. I rather think that your snake form is cute."

"What?" Crowley's eyebrows drew together. "It's not _cute_. It's intimidating." 

"Well, not to me. No offence, dear. You tend to just curl around anything with heat and sleep. It's rather adorable." 

Crowley's cheeks heated and he pursed his lips. "Well, good. It's just..." He searched for the words and inexplicably found that his heart was racing once more. "I've never meant to. I feel like I've spent the last six thousand years running around to make sure you were fine - the Nazi's, the French revolution. Then you went and made it look like you had gone and gotten yourself killed." He was aware that he was rambling, the words tumbling past his lips faster than he could filter them. "And I - I don't know what I'd do if you actually died. And then died thinking I was - _using_ you? I-"

"My dear," interrupted Aziraphale, shifting on the bed and drawing his gaze to him. "I'm sorry. I never intended for that to happen," he admitted. "And I've - I've never thought that you would hurt me. Nor use me, Crowley."

Crowley looked away quickly. "I-" he took in a quick breath. "I just care about, Angel."

Aziraphale smiled at him, hand warm on his arm. "I know. And you know that I care about you just the same."

Crowley shook his head. "No. It's not the same, Angel," he said. His words crawled slowly, fearfully through his throat and were lost to him when they fell from the cliff of his lips. He felt very human, what with the way his lungs threatened to collapse and the way he feared that his heart might give out, pounding so furiously against his skin. He felt very human with the emotions bubbling up in his veins, clogging his throat, and he felt so very weak and uncertain. 

Aziraphale looked at him, curious and confused. "Whatever do you mean? Of course I care about you," he said, sounding almost hurt that Crowley might imply that he didn't. Crowley shook his head.

"I know that," he hissed. "Of course I know. But it's different." He sighed and studied the ceiling above him. "When you - when I thought you died, Angel, I was terrified. Six thousand years and you were just - just gone, and I'd gone to run off to Alpha Centauri and left you to die." Aziraphale squeezed his arm in an attempt to comfort him. "And - I need you, Aziraphale. For Go-someone's sake. Demon's aren't supposed to be able to feel love, but I do. I love you." He didn't dare look at the angel after his confession, glowering bitterly at the ceiling. His cheeks flamed hot with embarrassment, and he waited patiently for Aziraphale to stand up and leave; leave Crowley alone to wallow in his self pity and shame. Instead, he let out a little "ah" and held himself still for a short moment. 

"Well... I didn't think you felt like that," he said. Crowley sat up, reaching for his sunglasses to shield his face. 

"It doesn't matter. Forget it," he blurted out. It didn't matter, even if he felt the sudden, devouring urge to run off and be by himself, to throw himself into the lonely expanse of space, to go and get so drunk he couldn't keep his head up. But he should have expected it, really. An angel couldn't love a demon. 

Aziraphale reached out to grab his hand, pulling him back down onto the bed. "Dear..." He urged the demon closer, pulling him to sit down beside him, thighs pressed together. "I've known you for six thousand years now, and not once have you truly failed me. You've put up with me for so long while I thought that Heaven was... just and unquestionable. If not for you, I'm afraid I wouldn't be here today, or as the person I am. I... what I'm saying is that, yes. I love you, too, Crowley."

Crowley felt his heart stumble clumsily as if it was backtracking, tripping over itself, freezing. "What?"

Aziraphale smiled and squeezed his hand carefully. "I'm aware I'm not as... sure on things as you might be, but I am on this, Crowley," he said. He lifted his head a little in the way he always did when he felt confident in something, and Crowley felt exactly the opposite; unable to respond with words, his tongue like lead in his mouth. 

"May... may I?" He asked, and Crowley composed himself long enough to ask;

"Can you what?" 

Aziraphale's cheeks warmed. "Kiss you, I mean. I-"

Crowley gathered himself, working his jaw that hung open in shock to finally say; "oh. Yes. Absolutely."

And suddenly Aziraphale was so close to him; closer than he ever had been (aside from that time Crowley pinned him against the wall in the old nun's church, and that one time in the 1900s in which they had been extremely drunk and fallen down some stairs, Crowley landing directly on top of him.) Closer than when they sat separately on the bus to remain inconspicuous (save for their last few bus rides, free of Heaven and Hell.) It was hesitant, uncertain; a hand gently exploring forth, coming to a rest on Crowley's sharp jaw, while Crowley's own settled on the angel's chest. His eyes slid shut, flickering amber fire hidden, and Aziraphale caught his bottom lip between his own; gentle, hesitant, unsure. Crowley was eager to reciprocate it, for it was suddenly very real. A very human gesture for two human-shaped beings that could not express themselves through Heaven or Hell. Aziraphale's lips were soft and gentle and loving and tasted like Heaven; a true Heaven, their own little Heaven, created in the interlock embrace of their lips, creating something secretive and perfect and entirely theirs and theirs alone. 

It ended quicker than Crowley would have preferred, but it still left him reeling; shaky and breathless, still unsure if he was still unconscious or not. When Aziraphale sat back, his cheeks were flushed and lips curved Heavenwards. "I've never done that before," he admitted bashfully. "I hope it was alright."

"Neither have I. It was fine," said Crowley, then hurried to correct himself. "More than fine. I'd love to do it again sometime," he said. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow.

"As would I," he agreed gleefully. Crowley took it as an invitation and he surged forwards, fisting his hand in his shirt and pulling him back to meet his lips in an embrace. The angel staggered slightly, throwing out his hand to settle on Crowley's shoulder and balance himself. He moved his hand to Crowley's back however once he pulled back, Crowley's forehead slumping against Aziraphale's shoulder. 

"Are you alright, dear?" He asked softly, his voice smooth and breath warm on the shell of his ear. Crowley was certainly alright. He was far better than alright. He would dare to go so far as to say he felt like he had just gone to Heaven, if Heaven was a better place than it was now. He would dare to say that he had almost felt like an angel again. 

"Perfect," he murmured. He didn't make a move to move from his position, pressed tight against Aziraphale as if he feared that he would disappear if he moved, or that he'd wake up from a dream. Aziraphale didn't make him. His hand found its way into Crowley's hair, his fingers running through it in a way that soothed the tension in his body and bled him dry of it until he felt like a limp snake draped over the angel. For the first time in what felt like a long time, Crowley felt utterly at peace. He could live in this moment for the rest of his existence quite happily, with Aziraphale content and happy beneath his hands, soothing and loving. 

He revelled in the moment. Aziraphale exuded warmth and love and Crowley was more than comfortable to bury his head in the crook of his neck and keep him there for eternity. Aziraphale seemed as content, his fingers combing through his hair. Exhausted by the events of the past few days, Crowley felt as if he could simply fall asleep. He couldn't, however. He lifted his head regretfully, slowly enough so that Aziraphale could smoothly slide his hand down from his hair. 

"I was debating whether you'd fall asleep or start purring," he commented with a smile. Crowley shot him an unamused look but nonetheless huffed out a breath.

"Don't tempt me," he said instead. "I would. But I need to tell you something."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and tipped his head to the side. "What is it?" He asked. 

Crowley hated ruining the serenity of the moment, but he forced himself to gather himself and sit up more, rubbing his tired eyes. "With, uh, Gabriel," he began. "He said something about... some things."

Aziraphale grew more serious at that, too. "What did he say?" His eyes flicked back to the door. "Should we not tell the others, too?"

Crowley sighed. "That's the thing," he said. His hand scratched beneath his jaw like an absentminded tic, and he forced the words out. "There's... well, have you heard anything about, like. A battle, perhaps? One specifically between a newly freed Lucifer and an angry Michael?" He asked, voice rising in pitch. "And happen to have heard of who their vessels should be?"

Confusion teased Aziraphale's features. His eyebrows drew together, his lips pursed. "No, I don't think I have."

"Well, Gabriel has," he snorted. "Apparently, it's one of the older ones written in the paperwork, too. The Winchesters go back quite some time. It's..." he sighed and scrubbed a hand down his jaw, then he paused for a moment as if to check that no one was outside listening. He didn't hear a thing, so he continued. "Remember when we first arrived and they said Zachariah had been bugging them for some time, too? They never said why, though. It's because Michael wants to use Dean as a vessel to fight Lucifer." 

Aziraphale sat up a little straighter. "What?" He uttered, shocked, then shook his head. "He'd never let Michael."

"Of course not," agreed Crowley. "But I don't think Michael has been down to talk to Dean herself. Yet. But I... I think we should be keeping an eye out for it all."

Aziraphale nodded in agreement. "Certainly, certainly. I - I'd say that we should talk to them. If they know about it already, it'd be a good idea to talk to them."

Crowley bobbed his head in agreement. "There's, uh, something else. Gabriel thinks he might have an idea to... distract Michael for a while. It'd give them some more time," he said. Aziraphale looked uncertain at that, obviously still uncertain about Gabriel and the revelation that there were two of them. "I might have to talk to him about that. I - I don't think it would take long, but... he might help us." His gut twisted at the lie, and he knew he was just digging himself deeper into a hole that he would regret in the future. Especially after what had just transpired between the two of them; he felt horrible for it. 

"What kind of idea?" Aziraphale inquired.

"I'm not sure yet. That's why I would need to talk to him. I think... there's a good possibility that, well, Lucifer might help us." 

Aziraphale blinked. "What?" He asked, eyes narrowed slightly. "I - no. You can't trust the Devil, Crowley," he said, shaking his head adamantly. 

"He doesn't want to hurt any of us," Crowley rushed to say. "When we spoke, I made him promise me that. He wont hurt any of us. He's only hurt by Michael." 

Aziraphale did not look convinced. Crowley continued to ramble. "I - I'm not going to seek him out, but he might be able to help."

The angel beside him shuffled on the bed, letting out a small breath. "You said you were terrified when you thought that I had died, Crowley," he said. His hands sought out Crowley's, holding one of his. "Don't make me go through that too. Please."

Crowley's gut twisted and he looked at their hands. Aziraphale's thumb brushed over his pale knuckles, tight, jerky movements. Crowley bit his lip. "I won't," he promised. Aziraphale freed one of his hands to position it on Crowley's cheek, tilting his head up to catch his eyes. 

"Promise?"

"I promise." 

Aziraphale hesitated a moment longer to study him before he offered a trusting smile, nodding his head. "Good. Good. Now; back to business, I believe," he said, and he rose from the bed in a swift movement, pulling Crowley to his feet with him. Crowley sighed heavily.

"I s'pose so," he grunted unhappily. He leaned on Aziraphale, draping one arm over his shoulders as if he was a crutch, and his nose pressed against his cheek. "Although I'm not opposed to staying in for a while longer."

Aziraphale scoffed, his cheeks heating ever so slightly, a light dusting of rose covering them. "Perhaps if you behave I'll bring a book to bed and read it for us," he offered, eyebrow raised. Crowley hummed, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"That does sound tempting," he responded. He peeled himself away from Aziraphale, then, rather reluctantly so, and then he followed him out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen where everyone still sat, save for Sam who was currently carrying two plates stacked with food. He set one in front of Dean and took his much healthier plate for himself.

"I wasn't sure if you'd join us," Sam commented, offering a small smile. "I'm sorry, we didn't cook anything else.

Crowley dismissively waved his hand, sliding into the seat next to Aziraphale's. One leg crossed over the other, his foot brushing Aziraphale's leg, and he leaned on the table with his chin propped upon his hand. "No need for food," he said. "In fact, we have some questions of our own."

Sam quirked an eyebrow and shared a look with Dean and Castiel. "Oh?"

"Yup. What was Zachariah doing looking for you lot?" He inquired, pursing his lips. 

"Zachariah?" Echoed Sam. He grimaced and shared another look with Dean, who cleared his throat and swallowed down a piece of pork. 

"Zachariah followed us after trying to make me go to Heaven to be Michael's vessel for some fight, or something," he said vaguely, waving his fork around as if the gestures contributed greatly to his speech. Crowley gave Aziraphale a look. "Why?"

"Was just checking," shrugged Crowley. "Gabriel mentioned a battle between Michael and Lucifer."

"He did?"

"That is what I just said, yes. Gabriel..." Crowley leaned further on the table as he spoke, drumming his fingers on the table. "He might have an idea to help with that side of things. I'll need to go talk to him at some point, but he might have an idea to help."

"How so?" Asked Sam. Crowley shrugged once more and glanced away.

"Dunno. That's why I need to speak to him again," he stated. His eyes flicked towards the door. 

"Do you think it's a good idea?" Sam asked. 

"I don't see why not. Gabriel wants to avoid violence possibly more than anyone. The fact that he's shown himself after millennia of avoiding everyone means something," stated Crowley. Sam shrugged and turned his focus briefly to the salad in front of him. 

"If you think it's a good idea, it's better than simply trying to wait Michael out," he said. "And assuming with Zachariah and Uriel being killed, there's a chance Michael would come down instead, isn't there?"

The supernatural beings exchanged an unpleasant look. "Perhaps," admitted Aziraphale with a stiff nod. "And we would like to avoid that." His eyes flicked uncertainly to Crowley, who nudged his leg underneath the table.

"I'll be careful," he assured them. "A quick chat. Not much." 

"At least wait until the morning," asked Aziraphale, his face soft and anxious. Crowley tipped his head. 

"I would love a good sleep," he said. He stretched his arms up above his head, his mouth opening wide in an obscene yawn that he made no effort to politely cover or hide. He stood up, pushing his chair aside. He glanced at Aziraphale while stepping towards the kitchen. "I'll make tea. Go fetch a book, Angel." He waved him towards the library (he had no intentions of going back in there soon) and the angel did so slowly, heaving himself to his feet and wandering off to browse for a book interesting enough to read to Crowley. Not that Crowley really cared; he'd listen to whatever Aziraphale said and read. 

His foot tapped on the tiled floor while he watched the kettle boil. Even after all of this, he had continued to lie to Aziraphale. But he knew that Aziraphale would not agree with him if he had admitted it was Lucifer, and if this helped keep Aziraphale - and the rest of them - safe, then he had to do it. He couldn't let Michael get Aziraphale after their close call with their trials and body swap. 

He still wasn't sure he wasn't sleeping. Since what had happened with Aziraphale, he had felt so blissfully disconnected; as if he was floating on a cloud, giddy and high. He didn't feel as stressed and anxious as he had been feeling consistently since Zachariah and Uriel had attacked them, and it was blissful. 

The kettle dinged, and Crowley poured two cups of tea and then brought it back to the bedroom. Aziraphale was already there, book in hand, and he smiled at him. 

"I hope you enjoy this book," he said, holding it up. Crowley narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to read the title. 

"Isn't that also a movie?" He asked. Aziraphale shrugged and looked back down at it.

"Maybe. I thought I had heard of it before. It's fantasy, though. I thought you'd prefer something fictional," he stated. Crowley shrugged, handed one tea over and sipped his own before setting it on the bedside table. He crawled onto the bed, positioning himself with his head on Aziraphale's lap. He heard the angel sip his tea before setting it aside, and with one hand he held open the book, the other settling once more into Crowley's hair absentmindedly. He began to read, voice steady and soft, and at some point Crowley felt the blankets shifting to cover up to his shoulders.

"You sat there all night?" Crowley asked, incredulous. 

Aziraphale peered down at him with a fond smile. "Well, yes. You were asleep and I couldn't move without risking waking you. Plus, I was enjoying the book, so I read ahead," he shrugged. The book that had still been open in his hands was now set aside, next to Crowley's cup of cold tea, and Crowley forced himself to sit up.

"You could have just moved me," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. Aziraphale shrugged once more. 

"That wouldn't have been very kind. You were peaceful," he stated simply. "Did you sleep well?"

Surprisingly, he had. Crowley found himself sleeping restlessly and fitful these days, as if even asleep his mind was unable to truly rest, but he had slept incredibly well. He felt more well rested than he had in a while.

"I did," he confirmed with a nod. "Thanks to you, no doubt," he added, and Aziraphale simply smiled. 

"I'm glad," he replied. He nudged his arm and watched as Crowley first burrowed into Aziraphale's lap for a brief moment before deciding to force himself to his feet and stretch, hands rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Everyone else awake?" He asked. Aziraphale glanced towards the door and shrugged.

"I think so. Castiel doesn't sleep and Sam wakes up early to jog in the mornings, but I'm unsure if he still does it, what with the fuss with Heaven at the moment. Dean sleeps in for longer."

Crowley hummed his acknowledgement, and he took a moment to simply look at Aziraphale. Upon his scrutiny, the angel raised his eyebrows slightly.

”Is everything alright?” He asked, raising one hand to touch his cheek as if he thought he had something on his face.

”Everything’s fine,” assured Crowley, snapping out of his daze. He looked down at his own hand, resting limply, uselessly by his side. “I was just thinking that I ought to go speak to Gabriel. I don’t particularly want to, though.” His shoulders bobbed with an overly dramatic sigh. Aziraphale deflated slightly to, and he reached forth to take Crowley’s hand.

”I did do some thinking while you were asleep,” he said. “I think that it might not be a bad idea. If this is... worse than I think it is, and with the idea of a battle between Lucifer and Michael, then I think that we might need the help. And I understand that this goes back to when you were... an angel. I’m sure that this means a lot more to you than you’re showing.”

Crowley’s cheeks flames slightly with heat, his eyes falling to study the ground beneath his feet. Aziraphale squeezes his hand to draw his attention back. “And that’s alright. I don’t suppose I’ll ever really understand what’s going on in your head, but I do trust you.”

Crowley let out a small breath and drifted closer to him. “Thanks, Angel,” he breathed out as if saying anything more was impossible. 

Aziraphale said nothing else, saving the words for a smile instead, and Crowley simply drank it all in. Then he forced himself to stand taller and let his hand slip from Aziraphale’s.

”Thanks,” he repeated. Aziraphale nodded and together the two left the room, heading through to the kitchen. Sure enough, the infamous trio were already sat there, Dean shovelling the last of his breakfast into his mouth, his cheeks puffed out with the amount of food. 

“Sleep well?” Sam asked, and Crowley smiled at Aziraphale slyly. Aziraphale, having brought forth the book he had spent the night reading, held it up.

”I, uh, heard this was also a movie?” He said, diverting the conversation, and Dean nodded.

”Oh, yeah. ‘s not bad,” he confirmed. “Probably got it somewhere around here.”

Aziraphale hummed and set the book on the table, sliding into a seat and opening it to the page he had left it at. He was nearly through the entire book; only a few chapters to go, Crowley guessed.

”I’m going out,” said Crowley, skirting around the table and heading towards the stairs. 

“Where to?” Castiel asked.

“Out to explore,” Crowley joked. “Out to talk to Gabriel. He might have a plan to try and help us with Michael. Considering Zachariah and Uriel are dead, I’d say we’ve got a few days at most until Michael comes down. Seeing what Gabriel thinks is the best plan I’ve got.” He waved his hands in a vague gesture in front of him, a sharp, humourless grin on his lips.

He watched as the trio all exchanged heavy looks with one another. “You think Michael would come down himself?” Asked Sam. Crowley’s face tightened.

”Why not? He’ll be pissed about Zachariah and Uriel, pissed about Lucifer, pissed about me, pissed at Castiel and Aziraphale. Coming down to smite us all while we’re chilling here together is the best plan for him,” he said bitterly. 

“Yeah. Uh, maybe Gabriel’s a good idea,” Dean muttered. He swallowed his food down and then stood up, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. “Where we meeting him?”

”We?” Echoed Crowley. “There is no ‘we’. I’m meeting him alone.”

”Oh?” Said Dean, eyebrows raising. Suspicious glittered in his eyes and Crowley glared at him.

“Yes. This is the first time he’s shown himself in millennia. I go about bringing more people, he’s going to freak. I’ll speak to him first. I’ll try and bring him back here, depending what happens,” he offered. Turning around, he continued to the stairs, his hand ghosting over the banister. 

“It’s for the best,” he heard Aziraphale say. There was some grumbling from the others that he tuned out, and he swallowed down the guilt in his stomach and left the bunker,

Outside, he stretched his wings out. He didn’t want to do it so close to the bunker. With a powerful thrust of his wings, they took him high in the air. 

Crowley did not like flying. It was not the same experience for him as it once had been; he feared that at any moment, his wings would suddenly fail him. They’d buckle and burn and smoke, and he’d be falling again, falling for eternity. Each sudden gust of wind that took him by surprise sent a jolt of panic jumping in his throat. He forced himself onwards, however, until he found a field far from any human, and he landed heavily on his feet in the centre of it.

He tucked his shaking wings against his back once more, and then he looked around. The sky was bright, not a cloud in sight, and the sun bore down on him. The trees were still with anticipation, holding their breath, and it took Crowley a moment to catch his.

“Lucifer,” he breathed. The name was lost to a sudden gust of wind and, with no hesitation, no time to turn back around and leave, he was there. Standing a few feet from Crowley, Lucifer grinned.

”Good choice,” he commented, and he came the last few steps to stand right in front of him. 

“I still don’t think so,” muttered Crowley. He took a step back. “And I don’t entirely know what’s going on, either.”

Lucifer frowned at him. “I’ve already told you. I’ll give you just a little of my grace - don’t fight it. This whole plan’ll go in the gutter if you accept it, and it’ll only hurt you if you do that. It’ll power you up. Think like... being exhausted and taking some immediate energy pill, or something.” Lucifer shrugged half heartedly. “And should Michael come down - and he probably will, this might draw some attention - then you’ll be A-okay to lead him somewhere else, or whatever.”

Crowley swallowed. “And what will you do?” He asked. Lucifer shrugged.

”I’ll probably yell for Gabriel to get his ass down here. There’s little time to have a nice conversation like I would have. I’ll try and talk to Sam, too. I’ve found your little safe house. And then I’ll deal with Michael.” His eyes flickered briefly with something dark. 

Crowley forced himself to lift his head a little. “If you hurt any of them,” he said, voice low. “If you hurt Aziraphale, Lucifer...”

”Ah, I don’t plan on it. Actually...” He pursed his lips in thought. “Think you can distract Michael for just a little while? If he comes, that is. But I have no chance of getting Gabriel here if we’re already fighting. If you give me some time, I can talk to him. That might even give you some time to talk to your friends, too. Huh?” He held his hand out.

Crowley stared at it for several long moments, and then he reached out and slid his own hand into. Lucifer gripped his like a vice, tight and bruising, and he pulled Crowley but an inch from his face. His other hand went to his jaw and held his face close, his lips parted, and then his eyes were glowing, burning like hellfire, and something left his lips and slid down Crowley’s throat.

It was instant and eternal. Frozen, abandoned by any warmth of Heaven and divinity, and it did not end. It burned like a snake going down his throat and brought tears to Crowley’s eyes, made him gag and retch but he was frozen under Lucifer’s hold. He feared Lucifer had lied to him. He wasn’t giving him a tiny bit, but he was going to burn him from the inside out and destroy him. 

He managed to moan pitifully, and then it stopped. No more entered and suddenly Lucifer was gone, leaving Crowley to collapse on the field by himself.

It churned in him, something cold with rage and fury and pain, and it devoured him whole. It was agony. Worse than anything he had ever experienced in Hell. He was dying, surely.

Someone was screaming, and something exploded. He didn’t realise it was Raphael himself, devoured in unholy light as the sky split open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed another cliffhanger, because I am obviously worse than Lucifer.


	9. Marbel Heavy, a Bag Full of God

When Crowley Fell into Hell, he was met with unimaginable pain through punishments. For, of course, he was to learn his lesson for speaking out against the Almighty. It went on for what felt like an eternity, and Crowley would very easily say that it was the worst pain that he had ever felt in his life.

One might imagine that they can tough it out. Punishments written down on paper; sure, they definitely did not sound pleasant, but surely they could not be _that_ bad. Not for an angel; not for an archangel of Heaven. Crowley had much thought like that; he was an archangel of Heaven, and he would show them that. He would accept his punishments and he would redeem himself and the Almighty would take him back to Heaven with open arms.

She did not. As soon as he Fell, She left him. And the punishments he received were unbearable. He forgot his name, forgot his purpose, forgot who he was and where he was and why this was happening to him; for a long time, all he knew was that She had left him, and he did not deserve this, yet at the same time They said he did.

It was indescribable. Crowley did not like to spend long in Hell if he could avoid it. Nonetheless, Hell seemed to follow him everywhere, despite his best efforts. 

Hell was easily the worst torture he could ever imagine. Until this.

When his awareness came back from the blinding, devouring pain, all he knew was that he was on the floor, and the entire field was on fire, smoke rising into the sky. It had been put out by the rain that battered down on him, as if She was recreating the flood with the Ark, and lightning flashed everywhere. Wind tore through his feathers, and Crowley could not move even if the wind battered into him and the rain threatened to drown him. 

His wings. Oh, Almighty. They sung with pain like no other, and he realised it was because the skeletons of his ruined other pairs had burst forth and begun to grow flesh and muscle and feathers once more. His remaining set felt like it had been stretched out over a rack; bones broken and stretched to their original form, muscle following forth and more feathers. It was agony. He couldn’t breathe. The best he could do was press his face into the mud beneath him and swallow down nausea between his hyperventilating, his wings twitching and shivering, pulsing and throbbing as they knitted together. The two large pairs sprouting from his back, the smaller pair sprouting from the nape of his neck, arching high and Heavenwards. Eyes blink open from the feathers; all bright amber, serpentine, damned eyes that once had shone gold and now wept for redemption.

He tasted blood in his throat. When he tried to speak, tried to plead for Lucifer to come back and stop it all, he found it was because his vocal chords must have been torn for the only noise that came out was akin to a tortured mutt. 

His nails left trenches in the ground beneath him and he writhed like a snake, tried to find some position that eased the whole-body pain. He could find none. The day, which had been so bright before, was pitch black now. The only reason that he could see anywhere was because of the light that his eyes and his tears gave off; a sickly light that flickered between pale gold and blood red, like some pained, slow alarm. His glasses lay in shattered remains a few inches away. Crowley could not bring himself to care about them.

He should not have taken Lucifer’s offer. If he looked past the pain that was in his physical form, and turned instead to regard his grace, it did not get better. 

His grace was churning like an overheating engine; burning fiercely, each part attacking itself in bright flashes like stars. It felt as if his own being was at war with itself. 

He told himself to embrace it. Remembering what Lucifer had said about trying to reject it, he tried to force himself to accept it. Tried to open himself up and soothe it all into one cooperative being beneath his own control. 

“Oh, G- _someone_ ,” he wheezed. “Please, please, please.”

He didn’t know what he was begging for. Not really. Behind him, skeletal bones clacked together as his wings thudded wetly on the mud behind him. He felt the power beneath his skin building up again, like a tsunami wave drawing closer, and as it washed over, his body seizing, his wings completed themselves.

Three pairs lay behind him; large and sleek, as if shadows had come to life, for they were still black and singed. Despite that fact, they felt so real. So like Raphael that it choked him up. He sat up with slow, shaky movements and turned to look at them all over his shoulder and then he reached out a hand, combing them through the dark feathers. They curled in on him like a mock hug, and Crowley buried his face in the feathers. 

The pain was slow to abate, but Crowley noticed it doing so immediately in the way that he could breathe freely once more, in the way that the fire in his bones dulled from a roaring blaze to embers, and how his grace, although hot and churning, was no longer attacking itself in confusion. It settled slightly, all three different parts of itself slotting forcefully together like pieces of three different puzzles. 

It felt no less wrong, however. Lucifer's grace was very distinctly different from his own; it sat heavy and burning with his own, pulsing, and oh so powerful. Crowley knew Lucifer had always been powerful, but this little sliver - more than he had expected Lucifer to give, honestly, but still not a lot in comparison to his entire grace - put into perspective just how powerful it was. At first, Crowley thought that it had only been a few minutes, but as he let his eyes - a brighter amber than before, aflame and serpentine, glittering with heavenly gold flecks - drift towards the old watch adorning his wrist - bought in the 50's - told him that it had, in fact, been an hour since he left. The fact unnerved him. 

He hauled himself to his feet and with a single thought, all traces of mud disappeared from his clothes and skin. The blood in the back of his throat was gone and his voice was smooth. And, he realised belatedly, his hair was long; curled, fiery locks that reached just a couple of inches above his hips, as it once was many millennia ago. He took a moment to run his fingers through it fondly, as if he had missed long hair - he had, he realised, although he had never had it this long for ages. The closest it had been like this had been in 33 AD, and since it had went back and forth being longer and shorter. From the nape of his neck, poking through the thick hair, sprouted the two smallest wings he had, with a higher arch than the other pair so that it would have framed his halo. Although his wings had grown back, his halo had not fixed itself. It was still empty and shattered, leaking the remnants of its power like old tears, for he highly doubted anyone other than the Almighty would ever be able to fix that. 

He did not necessarily feel _holy._ No; he felt very much like a Fallen angel in that moment. Lucifer's grace felt like an open wound, full of fresh pain, festering with abandonment and neglect, sparking with anger at his rejection. It made Crowley mournful for both himself and Lucifer. He didn't realise it, but fat tears of molten gold still drew tracks down his cheeks. When he reached up tentatively to touch his face, he felt the skin twitching beneath his touch; shifting as scales along his cheekbones fought to remain in place and fought to fade beneath his skin. He felt like Heaven and Hell were fighting to take control of him; fighting to turn him into something holy, to turn him into something damned. He felt horrified and amazing. 

The rain eased slightly. Turning to a drizzle, thunder rolling further away, it stayed grey but not as violent, fog fading away. There was a flash of warmth and a brunette appeared a few feet from him, coppery wings twitching.

"Crowley," Gabriel whispered. He stared at him with a mix of horror and awe, confusion lingering in his features. Crowley's eyes rolled towards him, blinking slowly. 

"Hey, bro," he said with a small smile. 

"I - what the fuck?" Asked Gabriel, taking a few steps forwards and reaching out to grab Crowley's forearm. "I felt that all the way in fucking Scotland."

"What were you doing in Scotland?" Crowley asked, his eyebrows furrowing. 

"Stuff," retorted Gabriel. "I've been here for nearly an hour. I've not been able to get close until now."

"Really?" Crowley hummed in thought. "Well. Sorry, I guess. I didn't really mean that," he shrugged. Gabriel scoffed.

"No fucking way," he said. "I thought you had full control, you know, writhing on the ground like a fucking worm."

Crowley frowned at him. "I was not."

"You fucking were. Now, what the fuck happened? Crowley - you - _what_?" He spluttered over his words, running a stressed hand through his hair.

"I thought Lucifer was going to look for you," Crowley muttered to himself. Gabriel nodded.

"He is. Bastard almost found me, too. I just lost him," he said with the shake of his head. "Stop avoiding the question. You just flooded half of damned America with that storm."

Crowley grimaced. He glanced up at the clouds and they began to part, rain lightning until there was no more, and the sun peered out behind clouds. Gabriel scrutinised him. "It's, uh. Borrowed power," he said, shrugging. "I... Lucifer's, to be exact."

Gabriel's eyes blew wide and he shook Crowley lightly. "And what in seven shades of fuck made you think that was a good idea?" He hissed. "That'll - that'll eat you from the inside out. You could go nuclear. Look - your wings. You feel like a damn beacon. You - well. You feel like you used to. Almost. But different. It's... fuck."

"I've never heard that expression before," Crowley commented. "And no. No," he drawled, shaking his head. "It wouldn't. It... you know, it almost fits," he mused. He twirled a strand of fiery hair around one of his fingers absently. "Almost fits perfectly. We both Fell. They're almost the same." 

Gabriel shook his head. "I... why, Crowley?" He asked, eyes soft. Crowley sighed.

"Michael. It's only a matter of time before Michael comes for Dean, and when they come down, they won't stop. They'll kill me and Aziraphale and Castiel and Sam. I - I can't let that happen."

"So you trust Lucifer?" Gabriel sneered. Crowley glared at him, suddenly intense. 

"Yes. I do," he hissed. "Because I _understand_ , Gabriel. I know what it's like to Fall from Heaven and be completely abandoned and hated by the Almighty for doing nothing wrong. I understand that he's mad and he's hurt, Gabriel-"

"Are you saying I don't feel bad for him?" Gabriel bit back. Crowley gave him a look.

"I'm saying you don't understand what it's like to have everything stripped away from you like Lucifer and I have. I know why Lucifer feels how he does. I know there's more to Lucifer than what he's done in Hell. He could have killed me-"

"He almost did!" Cried Gabriel. "You looked like you were about to die, Raph-Crowley! Just being near here was enough to hurt me!" As if to prove it, he held his hand out, showing the small, healing burns and blisters that still lingered on his skin. "He almost did."

"But he didn't," Crowley said. "And he knew what he was doing. He's only ever promised me safety - and everyone else - since we spoke. He doesn't want to hurt people. He's understandably mad at Falling and I can not blame him, Gabriel. I really can't. I think he would quite readily flatten the Earth if triggered, but I trust him much more than I would ever trust Michael."

Gabriel huffed a breath, chest rising heavily, and he looked very conflicted. "What was this plan, then?" He asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Light yourself up like a Christmas tree?"

"Michael could kill me easily. This... it makes things a little easier. It gives us some time, too. It buys us all some time," he told him. 

Gabriel sighed, shaking his head again and then rubbing his hands down his face. His wings twitched with stress behind him and he looked around at the singed grass and mud around them. "You said you didn't want to fight," he said. 

"I don't. But I can't let Michael do what he will. You know Michael can be ruthless."

Gabriel's eyes fluttered closed, his face tight. "You always were fucking crazy," he muttered to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Crowley smiled softly at him and then tilted his head upwards. 

"I'm adaptable," he simply said. "You know, I wanted to forget about Raphael," he said, reminiscing. "I wanted him to just die. I think that's the real punishment of Falling, you know. Remember it all. I hated it. But now I almost feel like that again." His wings ruffled, stretching out, and he saw Gabriel's eyes follow them. "I think I missed my wings the most, really."

Gabriel swallowed. "Me too," he uttered sadly. "Hey, you even got your hair back. I thought you were going bald."

Crowley snorted, rolling his eyes. "What, just because you look like a brunette version of Prince Charming from Shrek?" He quipped. 

"You've watched Shrek?" Accused Gabriel. Crowley grins.

"I fucking made it. Or, made people make it. The first one. I was rather drunk and I read some book about an ogre. I really didn't think they'd do it - and, what, like twenty sequels?" Crowley mused, shaking his head. "Humans. But you've seen it, then," he accused in return. Gabriel grinned in amusement. 

"You got me there," he snickered. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and scuffed the floor with his foot. "What're your plans now?" He asked. 

"I'll need to go back. I didn't expect to be out this long," he admitted. "You should come with me."

Gabriel grimaced at the idea. "And do what?"

Crowley shrugged. "You're an archangel. I can't tell you what to do," he snorted. "But I will tell you I told everyone that I was meeting you, and not Lucifer."

Gabriel threw his hands in the air. "You're fucking stupid," he said in a tone akin to being awe-struck. "And how are you going to explain that," he gestured to Crowley, "to them?"

Crowley grimaced. "I... I didn't think about that," he muttered. Gabriel snorted. 

"Obviously." He dropped his head into his hands once more and looked Heavenwards. "Do you think that the Almighty's watching us?"

"No," retorted Crowley. "Well, maybe you. But I think that She has long since stopped interfering with anything anyone does. I don't think She would start now."

Gabriel sighed, nodding his head in unfortunate agreement. "You're probably right," he mumbled. "You know that I just want everyone to be like they were."

Crowley bobbed his head. "I do," he said. "Of course. But... that was a long time ago. Things have changed a lot." He frowned softly, looking down at his feet. "I don't think we'll ever be like what we once were, before it all started."

"I'm afraid not," agreed Gabriel. His gaze turned up to the sky as if expecting something to fall from it, and the two fell into silence. Several moments passed until Gabriel spoke up again. "I'll come with you."

Crowley turned to regard him, raising his eyebrows. "Really?"

Gabriel nodded. "Yes. Maybe it's time I accepted the mess we all are and do something." 

"Lucifer'll be looking for you," Crowley pointed out. Gabriel wrinkled his nose up and shrugged.

"And? If he can find me, he can talk. If not," he shrugged once more, "not my fault." He waved vaguely around them. "Lead the way then."

Crowley pressed his lips together before nodding. Then, with a powerful beat of his wings, he soared into the air with such strength and speed that it almost took him off balance. Gabriel easily kept up with him, but by the time, only a few seconds later, they touched the floor outside the bunker, Crowley was glad to be on his feet again. He did not enjoy flying, and he almost feared that he would have to relive the process of them all burning off once more. 

Crowley was surprised that Michael had not shown up yet. He wasn't sure if it was a good or a bad thing, and he didn't really want to know. But Gabriel had felt it in a different country, and Michael was no doubt zoned in on him. Even if his grace was settled slightly, it was still yet to actually dull. Lucifer's grace pulsed and throbbed with his, slid into place but struggling under Crowley's control. It flared with emotion that Crowley struggled to differentiate from his own - anger and betrayal that stung at the back of Crowley's eyes - and it flared with pain as it lashed out, pain enough to make Crowley grit his teeth and dig his nails into the palms of his hands, riding it out with a dry mouth.

"You alright?" Asked Gabriel beside him. He reached out to tentatively touch Crowley's arm, and Crowley forced his jaw to relax and his eyes to open.

"'m fine," he grunted with a nod. Gabriel did not look convinced.

"I told you Lucifer's grace isn't good," he muttered. "Borrowing another angel's grace is bad enough, but Lucifer's own... I can't imagine. It can't be good for you."

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine," he repeated firmly. "And when Michael comes down, we'll be glad to have it."

Gabriel still did not look rather convinced. He shook his head. "You're acting like you want to fight him!"

"I don't," Crowley defended. "I don't want to fight anyone, Gabriel. But I can't just sit by and let Michael do this."

Gabriel pressed his lips together and looked towards the bunker. It made Crowley's stomach twist with anxiety.

They wouldn't understand. They wouldn't be happy once they found out what he'd done. Crowley feared that he really had done the wrong thing, but he stood no chance of helping when Michael showed up. They couldn't do another swap, they couldn't run away to a place that Michael wouldn't be able to find them, he couldn't sit by and let it happen. 

He took a moment to look around, steadying himself. It seemed the storm his corrupt grace had made had reached here, for the road was flooded and some smaller trees had fallen down around the area. A few miles away, the nearby towns were all suffering from a blackout. Cars were stalled on nearby roads, phones completely drained, fields flooded. Some people had caught videos of the sudden freak storm, confusion mingling through everyone. 

"Are we going in?" Gabriel asked after several moments. "You'll have to do it at some point," he stated. "Been an hour already."

Crowley grimaced at the reminder. He had lost time as he tried to deal with Lucifer's grace, more time than he had thought. Michael could have wiped everyone out in that amount of time, and it was sheer luck that Michael hadn't taken that opportunity to strike. 

Crowley sucked in a breath, nodded, and strolled up to the door. He opened it, the warding giving way for Crowley to enter and bring Gabriel in. His heart pounded in anticipation, and his grace churning in his core did not help anything at all. His footsteps seemed to echo as he lowered the stairs, Gabriel in tow, and approached the kitchen. He could hear Dean talking, hear paper turning, Sam typing on his laptop.

"Crowley? Is that you?" Called Sam, and his chair squeaked on the floor.

"Yup. I've brought a friend," he called back. After what felt like an eternity, Crowley and Gabriel came to the bottom of the stairs and into the kitchen. "Meet Gabriel. The real Gabriel."

Castiel and Aziraphale were gaping at him. Eyes blown wide and staring over his shoulders, and Crowley had the urge to run away and hide as if he was some gross freak show. 

"Wow. You run off and get a reverse hair cut?" Dean commented, looking uncertain. Crowley's eyes flicked towards his hair, curled by his hips, and he tipped his head side to side. Dean turned to look at the other two angels by the table, scrutinising their wide eyes, and then he looked back at Crowley. "What?"

"What happened?" Aziraphale asked, awe struck. "Your - _wings_ , Crowley."

"Long story," quipped the demon, "not sure if we've got the time for it. We need to talk."

"Is everything okay? You were gone so long. I - I thought Michael..." Aziraphale trailed off sheepishly, his hands clasped on his lap. Crowley waved a hand.

"Surprisingly, Michael hasn't shown. Yet."

"The storm," Castiel said. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"Can I talk?" Crowley asked rhetorically, perhaps a little sharper than necessary. He brought Gabriel towards the table, and the archangel sat on his right side while Aziraphale sat to his left. Aziraphale looked hesitant for a moment before he reached out and slid his hand in Crowley's, a silent request for assurance. Crowley bit his lip and squeezed it gently. The light above them flickered as he sat down.

Crowley gestured to Gabriel. "Gabriel; Aziraphale, Sam, Dean, Castiel," he introduced. "Real archangel Gabriel, everyone."

"You here to help?" Dean asked. "Send Michael packing?" 

Gabriel grimaced. "s'pose so," he grumbled. "Nothing good'll come with Michael." He seemed to deflate slightly, shaking his head. His eyes flicked to Crowley, choosing to stare at his hands rather than anyone else. He could feel worry coming off Aziraphale in waves, could feel the intensity of Castiel's gaze. He could feel the weight of his old wings, feel the furious fire that was Lucifer, could see for miles, could create stars again if he wanted to, with this new power. It'll burn out eventually, he knew. Either Lucifer would come and take it back, or it would burn itself out. And he'd go back to being himself; weak and nothing but a remnant of himself. 

He could feel himself getting selfishly attached to it. For all he said he hated Raphael and wished to forget all about him, now presented with not quite the same power, but closer, he latched onto it.

The grace flared to the tips of his wings and he shuddered, full body, and stared at his hands. 

Gabriel was still talking. He knew because he could hear his voice, although it became like an irritating buzzing fly, echoing far away. Crowley had a moment to think; _ah, shit,_ before his head hit the table.

_"You're with Gabriel."_

_Lucifer stalked forwards, his eyes ablaze with fury like none other. "You_ lied _to me!"_

_Gathering himself, Crowley took a few steps backwards, shaking his head. "Ah, wha-no, what?" He spluttered dumbly, a grimace on his lips._

_"Don't lie!" Lucifer hissed, and he lunged out, fisting a hand in Crowley's shirt and pulling him so close their noses touched. Crowley felt his heart pound furiously beneath his ribcage, and he reached one hand up to grab Lucifer's fist, trying to pry himself free. In response, Crowley's wings - all of them - flared out defensively, large and arching. He saw Lucifer's eyes go to them, watching them unfurl and fluff out, and he sneered. "I should take that back right now. I should take your entire damned grace, since you're so ungrateful. I don't appreciate liars,_ Raphael _." His lips curled away from his teeth, fangs now, in disgust, and Crowley shook his head in sudden fear._

_"It's - Lucifer, calm down!" He hissed, scratching at his hand more ferociously. And he'd given what had felt like a rather fair amount of his grace to Crowley, and he was not at full power, yet Crowley felt as if his brother could squash him like an insignificant fly. All of his wings were unfurled from his back, dark and shadowing and devouring, and his eyes burned unholy into him, slivers of his grace flashing behind his eyes. "It's not what you think!"_

_"You've been hiding him from me," Lucifer continued. He took steps forwards, pushing Crowley back. "After all this, I trusted you more than anything, more than anyone-"_

_"Lucifer!" Crowley snapped, words ragged from his lips. "Stop it and listen! Just calm down!"_

_"After you_ betrayed _me?" Lucifer spat, the words like holy water from his lips. "Are you working with Michael, then? Is that it?" As if to give voice to his unspoken threat, his grace pulsed, hot and deadly and leaving blisters akin to holy water on Crowley's skin. Crowley grimaced, looking away in an attempt to shield his face for a moment._

_"No!" Crowley responded. "You know Michael would sooner kill me than work with me, and I'd sooner kill myself than work with Michael. It's - I've only spoken to Gabriel once before, Lucifer! Only once. And I did not know where he went after that, he didn't tell me. You know Gabriel doesn't want seen. I would have been betraying his trust. He wasn't ready to speak to you then, and I hadn't spoke to him since."_

_Lucifer glowered down at him, his teeth grinding together. Crowley can't bring himself to look away from him for once, holding his gaze steadily. Slowly, Lucifer's wings slump ever so slightly, the fire in his eyes dying down a little._

_"What are you doing?" He asked. He pulled his hand back to his side and Crowley put some space between the two of them, exhaling shakily._

_"We were talking about Michael," he answered, smoothing his hands down his front. "I'm surprised Michael hasn't already shown up. I'm not sure what to think of it."_

_Lucifer hummed quietly, inclining his head. "Soon, no doubt," he said. "I should talk to Sam before I run out of time, then."_

_Crowley's heart skipped a beat. "I - wait. He doesn't know yet. Let - let me talk to him first, Lucifer. Please."_

_Lucifer pressed his lips together. He didn't look overly happy, but Crowley's serpentine eyes seemed to appease him for he sighed. "Quickly," he said. "I can't say no to you when you look so much like your old self, yet so... better. New."_

_Crowley grimaced, looking down at himself self consciously, his wings twitching. "But you can threaten to kill me," he retorted. Lucifer shot him a look._

_"Do not betray my trust, and we'll be fine, brother," he said, seeming to force the words out. Crowley didn't look at him. "Look, Michael could be here any second. I'm surprised you've not already been attacked. If you're going to talk to Sam, I suggest you do it quickly. We don't have the time to waste."_

_Crowley toyed with his lower lip reluctantly, but nonetheless nodded his head. "Just - just give me some time. They don't even know about you yet," he said. Lucifer raised an eyebrow in amusement, and Crowley did not find this very funny._

_"God be with you, brother," he said with a small smirk. Crowley rolled his eyes, and when he took a step backwards he fell._

He jolted up, sucking in a ragged breath, and almost hit Aziraphale in the face. The angel was hovering a few inches above him and he had been moved into a more comfortable position. His heart raced beneath his skin. 

"What happened, Crowley?" He asked, though it sounded more like a plead.

Crowley grunted and shoved himself off the floor, rubbing his aching head. 

"Lucifer," Gabriel mumbled. "I felt it. Him."

Crowley grimaced and nodded. "Lucifer," he repeated in confirmation. Tension in the room seemed to skyrocket, people holding their breaths. Crowley ignored it all in favour of Aziraphale helping him to his feet and back onto the chair he had been sitting on. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, voice soft and quiet. His hands were clasped on his lap, eyes stuck on them, and he was hesitant to look up at him. "Please tell us the truth."

Crowley's gut twisted as if a hundred knives had been stabbed into it, his cheeks warm in shame. He looked up, eyes seeking Sam out. "Michael wants to fight Lucifer, and he wants to use Dean as a vessel to do so. Lucifer needs a vessel too," he stated. He hesitated, words on the tip of his tongue. "And that's you, Sam. And he's potentially on his way right now." He blurted the last bit out in a bit of a rush, forked tongue spitting the words out of his mouth like poison. He watched chaos erupt around the table in slow motion.

Dean stood to his feet as if Crowley had personally insulted him. He pointed a finger in his direction, already adamantly denying the idea. Castiel, too, had risen, his eyes wide and lips parted. Sam was sitting, looking as if he hadn't truly processed what he had said. Aziraphale looked more composed, but no happier, and Gabriel was grimacing at it all, giving Crowley a knowing look. 

Crowley was more focused on other things. The lights were flickering over head, buzzing and hissing and swinging slightly as if there was a breeze. He felt... something. Something powerful, something intense. He could feel the warding on the bunker suddenly slip, crack and chip away, and Castiel was looking at him with an urgency, slipping his blade into his hand. Aziraphale was sitting up, repeating Crowley's name, and Crowley just watched as the door to the bunker blew off its' hinges to give way to fake-Gabriel standing behind Michael, a heavenly, burning glow lighting them up from behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as if I'm writing them very out of character. Is that coming through to you guys?  
> Were the Shrek references and long haired!crowley necessarily? Absolutely not. But I did it anyway. 
> 
> Also, how the fuck am I not supposed to end on a cliffhanger? Is it physically possible to do? This is a cry for help. 
> 
> Anywho; i hope you enjoyed, and any feedback is greatly appreciated!
> 
> The chapter that would usually be out on Friday might either be out early or late. If I get it finished in time, I'll upload it early, but if I don't, it'll most likely be Saturday; I'm sorry


	10. A Restless Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence included in this part; fighting is pretty much the entire chapter, apologies if you do not like violence.
> 
> Apologies for the late chapter - life, y'know. But thank you for being patient, and enjoy!

"Got all the rebels together, Crowley?"

Michael descended the staircase with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes sharp, intense. Everyone around Crowley had risen to their feet upon the sudden entrance and Crowley had put a hand out in front of Aziraphale. The angel had frowned at the protective movement, standing a little taller, but continued to peer at Michael as he approached, leading the other angels behind him.

"Ah, Michael," Crowley said with a rather forced smiled. "Uh, not intentionally, no..." His voice rose in pitch, smile turning to a pinched grimace. "But how nice to see you! Great vessel, by the way. You know I just _love_ talking to you, but if you could..." He gestured to the door. 

"You've been rather busy lately," Michael continued, ignoring him, and Crowley was glad for the table between the two of them that, at the very least, offered him some semblance of security. Not that a table would stop Michael, but he felt less vulnerable than he would should he be standing in an open field in front of Michael. "Associating with human hunters, dancing with The Devil, going nuclear." His eyes flitted towards Gabriel. "Reuniting with family."

"So nice to see you again," Gabriel drawled with a very forced smile. Crowley watched as Not-Gabriel leaned towards Michael, whispering quietly in regards to Gabriel. With a scowl, Michael revealed to him the fact that Gabriel, the real Gabriel, was stood in the room, and Crowley watched Not-Gabriel's face pale slightly upon realisation.

"I mean," continued Gabriel, "he doesn't even look like me. Really? Was there not a single better angel? I'm disappointed in you, Michael," he said, shaking his head and tutting. Michael glared at him. 

"And you _all_ have disappointed me," he hissed. His icy eyes turned towards Dean. "This isn't a discussion, Dean. You were created to hold me. This isn't a discussion."

"Mmm... no," said Dean, shaking his head and sounding as if this was a casual conversation rather than a potentially deadly argument with an archangel. 

"You cannot just say no."

"Just did," snorted Dean, then waved towards the door. "And you can't do shit about it. You can't kill me, either, so just accept it and leave." His bravery was almost impressive, if Crowley didn't feel it was rooted in stupidity. Even Castiel, who must have been around the two humans long enough for some stupidity to rub off on him, understood the gravity of Michael's appearance; his knuckles pale around the hilt of his blade. 

Michael's nostrils flared in anger and he opened his mouth to say something, prowling forwards, only for Gabriel to speak up. "Not even a friendly hello?" He asked, resting one hand on the table in front of him. "After so long, dear brother?" He placed a hand upon his chest as if he was hurt and Michael glared at him.

"You ceased to be my brother when you ran away and opposed Heaven, Gabriel," he snapped. Gabriel let out a fond sigh.

"Best decision of my life, I'm telling you," he murmured, shoulders slumping as if he was remembering old, good memories. 

"And then you," Michael turned to Crowley, lips curling away from his teeth in a disgusted sneer. "Trying to play angel again. Acting as if you aren't Fallen and damned. I don't know whether I should kill you now, send you back to Hell, or let that disgusting grace of yours kill you itself." He shook his head, hands curled into tight fists from pure disgust. Crowley frowned, glaring at him while his grace pulsed in anger, his wings stretching out slightly and twitching. 

"I am open to a civilised conversation," Crowley muttered. His fingers toyed with his hair, and he thought of times long gone. He and Michael had never been close; Michael had always been isolated, cold, a perfect soldier. But he had never been malicious, he thought. "Have a cup of tea, sit down-"

"Enough of this!" Michael turned back to Dean and behind him his wings spread wide. Michael had, arguably, the best wings of any angel. The first archangel and God's warrior, Michael's wings were the largest of any angel; followed extremely closely by Lucifer. He had four pairs, all large and powerful, built to carry him into battle and built like shields, they emitted a light bright enough that it made Crowley flinch and turn his gaze elsewhere. Sleek white with ripples of gold, divinity leaked from his feathers and hundreds upon hundreds of eyes peered out, all singing _holy holy holy._

"I might not be able to kill you, Dean, but I can kill everyone in here until you say yes." His hand opened by his side and in his grasp materialised his lance. Crowley remembered when he had made that; filled it with every intention to battle the entirety of Hell with it and, later, to battle Lucifer. It was not a weapon he wanted to go up against. He held it up, light glimmering from the blades, and everyone in the room reacted as one might to a sudden earthquake; bracing themselves, standing a little wider, grabbing their own weapons if they had them. Gabriel brandished his own blade and from underneath the table, Sam pulled out two similar angel blades, throwing one into Dean's hand. Crowley took a step back, pulling Aziraphale with him, and his wings spread out in an intimidation tactic. The angels at the other end of the room all did so too, wings unfurling smoothly into one dazzling wall of white, and the lights in the bunker all exploded.

Michael surged forwards. Castiel, being the closest, rushed forwards brashly to meet him, determination in his eyes. There was a loud, resounding crash as he collided with the opposite wall. Crowley's teeth ground together, his wings twitching, and he turned to Aziraphale, grabbing his arms.

"Aziraphale, go," he told him. "Get out of here."

Aziraphale turned his gaze from the angels to Crowley, his eyes hardening. "What? No," he said, looking astounded that Crowley would tell him to do such a thing. "I'm not leaving you all." As if to prove his point, his hand flexed and his own sword materialised and, with a few uttered words in a holy language that pained Crowley's ears, the blade caught fire. Crowley's eyes widened.

"Aziraphale, no. You - you can't. You - no. You need to leave, Aziraphale."

The angel gave him a look and squeezed his arm with his free hand. "I'm not as helpless as you might think, Crowley."

A clash of metal drew their attention, and Crowley whipped around to watch Gabriel going head to head with Michael. Castiel was back on his feet, dancing around Not-Gabriel's blade, and Sam and Dean were working together against the other angel. It was as if a trigger had been pulled; everyone jumping right into battle without another thought. Crowley didn't like it. He saw Gabriel narrowly dodge being impaled. 

"Fine! Stay safe, Angel. Promise me," he hissed with urgency, and Aziraphale offered him a smile.

"You too, my dear boy," he replied. He was whisked away to Sam's side as Dean was thrown across the room, faster than Crowley could say or do something meaningful, something painfully like last words. Crowley heaved in a breath and, with a pulse of his corrupt grace, he surged towards Michael and Gabriel.

He might not have a real weapon, but Hell boiled beneath his fingertips. The sight of Michael tugged on Lucifer's grace inside of him and spurred him with sudden fury, and, like Lucifer had said, he told himself to embrace it. 

He didn't have time to wonder where Lucifer was. One might assume he would have immediately came to the bunker after his and Crowley's conversation, but it appeared that he was taking his time. He couldn't dwell on it, however, for Michael's lance was lashing out at him. He jumped back, wings propelling him out of danger. Michael was fast, dancing out of reach of Crowley's claws and Gabriel's blades. His wings lashed out with each twist and turn and lunge, an extension of himself and just as deadly as his lance. It must look comical to Sam and Dean, really; all of them dancing out of reach from invisible appendages, ducking and hopping around. 

Gabriel's blade caught Michael's arm and the angel hissed, his wings pulsing with energy that briefly blinded Crowley, and he continued to hear crashes and grunts from around him. Crowley forced himself to not look away from Michael, to not seek out Aziraphale despite his best efforts. His heart pumped adrenaline around his body and he knew not if it was from fear for himself or fear for everyone else. 

He heard Gabriel cry out, guttural and pained, and Crowley whipped around to see him holding a glowing wound on his stomach. Michael pulled his lance back, no mercy, no love in his eyes, and Crowley jumped back into the fray. His wings threw him forwards and he wrapped himself around Gabriel, wings coming up behind him like shields. Before Michael's lance could spear through him, the floor between them cracked and hellfire roared from the pits, jumping up and creating a barrier between himself and the archangel, blowing him back a few steps. The wound on Gabriel was gone, though the spot obviously still tender to the touch. Hellfire scorched the ceiling, leaving dark marks across the interior.

"Get outside!" Castiel hollered. "We can't fight in here!" And with that, he caught Sam and Dean beneath his hands, and flew from the bunker, Not-Gabriel and the other angel following quickly. Aziraphale was quick to follow to offer immediate backup, and after all but thrusting Gabriel out, Crowley followed, Michael burning close behind him.

Michael grabbed his ankles and they crashed to the ground together, kicking up dirt and stone around them. Crowley caught the lance before the blade could pierce him, and his arms shook from the effort of holding it above his skin. 

"You don't need to do thisss, Michael," he hissed, forked tongue flicking out of his mouth as he spoke, hiss becoming more evident. His nails, which had grown sharper, darker, more like claws, left scratches on the carved wood of Michael's lance. His wings blocked everything else from view; hiding the fight, hiding the sky from his sight, large and blinding, wholly devouring. Crowley's struggled against the dirt, pinned beneath him, twitching. 

"Yes I do," replied Michael, firm and cold. "You never understood any of this, _Raphael._ You never could."

He thought he might have heard someone - Not-Gabriel, maybe - stumble and say something about Raphael. He ignored it.

"This isn't what anyone wants. Lucifer isn't even here-"

"And you weren't suppose to act out like this," Michael snapped. He kept growing brighter, burning brighter than stars, and Crowley felt his skin crawl. All eyes on Michael's wings burned into him, full of holy intention, and the lance inched closer. 

Scales rose to the surface of Crowley's skin and, with a roaring, large, demonic snake's head, he lashed out with fangs at Michael. It succeeded in making the angel fall off him, and Crowley took the moment to lunge. Michael's lance had fallen from his grasp and he snatched it up, his other hand going to the angel's throat. Michael looked up with an impassive face, unafraid of his own lance that stared him in the face. 

Crowley hesitated a second. It was long enough.

Someone - Aziraphale - yelled his name, and he looked up just in time for that other angel to thrust forth an opened bottle of holy water. 

It splashed onto the side of his face and down his neck, partly onto his wing and his arm. Pain exploded across his skin that sizzled and bubbled, and the lance fell from his grasp. He toppled to the side, urgent to cover his face and curl his wings in on himself, a scream tearing his throat. He heard, vaguely, someone tackle the angel before he could empty the bottle out entirely and surely kill him, even if it felt like he was dying nonetheless. 

His entire being tried to curl away from the pain, his wings trembling and seizing, feathers falling to the ground from the burnt patch on his wing. Black tears trailed down his cheeks, sizzling over burnt flesh that he was too scared to see how deep it had burnt. He couldn't bring himself to look up at all, wheezing breaths and trying - and failing - to ride out the pain. He'd been burnt by holy water before, but only ever a few drops; never to this extent. It was horrific. As if Hell itself had festered in the wounds and eaten down to his core and his grace. 

Someone's foot collided with his ribs, rolling him onto his back. He peered up at Michael and watched him kneel down. His free hand fisted into his shirt, tugging with it some hair that made him hiss, and then they were in the air. Michael's wings thrust them into the air, swiftly took him away from the battle on the ground, and tore clouds apart. He went so fast Crowley feared they would catch fire. His wings streamed behind him, buckling and curling in against his back against the pressure. The sky darkened and stars exploded around them, and Earth seemed so far below them. Michael seemed like a blinding ball of celestial energy more than anything, hundreds of eyes glaring into him, burning. 

"Fall, Raphael," Michael murmured, his voice carried forth to his ears, and then he let go and watched Crowley fall for the second time.

His wings couldn't unfold from the pressure that engulfed him as he plummeted, and Earth rushed to meet him. Feathers tugged free from his wings and he was _falling._ He was going to land in Hell once more and be moulded into some mindless monster, have his identity and self of being crushed and torn from him yet again. Crowley turned his head down to watch the rapidly approaching ground. If he looked close enough, he could see everyone. Michael was back on the floor, distracting anyone from potentially saving him, but he could see Aziraphale's distracted gaze. If he didn't stop looking, he thought, he was going to get himself killed.

Crowley closed his eyes and waited for impact. 

Hands caught him. He was suddenly being pulled up again with such speed he feared his neck might break, and he realised that he had been less than a mile from crashing into the Earth. He would have, had it not been for the person suddenly swooping in and catching him mid-fall.

"Sorry I'm late," grunted Lucifer, mighty wings slowing their flight. Crowley clung to him, digging his nails into him while he gasped for air. "Got caught up with some things."

"What - what are you doing?" Crowley stammered out. Every word brought forth pain from the ruined skin on his face and his voice came out little more than a mumble. 

"Saving you, it seems," retorted Lucifer. "Don't want you leaving a crater in the planet now, do I?" He landed a little while off from the actual fight still going on, far enough that he could set Crowley onto his feet and hold him up when his knees buckled. "You good? You with me?" 

Crowley didn't quite let go of him yet, holding onto his arms and trying to steady himself, heart still pounding from the fall. Shakily, he nodded and stood up a little taller. Lucifer reached out, taking his jaw in his hand and tilting his head to the side. He hissed at the sight and shook his head. "Playing dirty, is he?" He hissed.

"'s fine," Crowley grunted. "Need to get back." He stretched his wings out tentatively, zoning in on the battle. Lucifer grabbed his wrist before he could fly towards it.

"Maybe you should take a minute," he suggested. "How's the grace feeling? You're looking... great. Besides that," he said, gesturing to the weeping burn on his skin. "Look like your old self, but better."

Crowley flexed his hand. "Odd," he finally settled on. Lucifer gave a small laugh and grinned at him.

"Guess that's the best way to describe it," he said. His wings stretched out and he raised an eyebrow, and now it was Crowley's turn to reach out and grab his wrist.

"Wait! Wait. What - what're you going to do?" He asked. 

"What?" Lucifer's brow furrowed. "I'm getting this over with." And, with that, Lucifer leapt back into the air and to the fight. Crowley hurried to follow after him, straining to reach the battle and landing unsteadily by Lucifer's side once more.

Everyone had stopped to watch Lucifer, their eyes wide, faces pale. Lucifer had reached a hand out to grab Crowley when he stumbled, dizzy from flight. The look on Aziraphale's face did not go unnoticed by Crowley. Michael took a step forwards, thoroughly displeased with Crowley's rescue and Lucifer's appearance.

"Lucifer," he growled, a frown on his face. By his side, Crowley could feel the way hatred rolled off his grace, resonating with his own. It made him grimace, his wings twitching, spreading out as if trying to intimidate Michael. 

"Thought you got rid of me, huh?" Lucifer quipped, a grin verging on snarl on his lips. He let his eyes roam over everyone. "Castiel. Nice to finally meet you, brother. Heard a lot about you. Aziraphale; it's my pleasure. And Gabriel." He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "You're damn hard to track down. I don't appreciate it, but I'm willing to put it all behind us." He reached out a hand as if expecting Gabriel to come and take it. The archangel lingered, rigid, looking between Lucifer and Crowley. He didn't move. Lucifer hissed out a sigh and dropped his hand, turning to Michael.

"Long time no see, brother. I don't appreciate you throwing dear Raphael from the sky, I must admit," he hummed, taking casual steps forwards as if Michael wasn't holding his lance up, as if he wasn't almost vibrating with anger and disgust. 

" _Raphael_?" Not-Gabriel muttered. He looked worn out from fighting and utterly confused, and Crowley wanted to laugh at it. Michael glared at Not-Gabriel for a brief moment, ignoring his confusion. He stalked forwards, positively furious. It hurt something deep in him, seeing someone who was once his brother prowling towards him and their other brothers, ready and willing to kill them. His lance glinted threateningly, singing holy threats, and in Lucifer's outstretched hand materialised his own spear, dark and deadly. 

Lucifer turned to look at everyone else, thoughtful, and then settled his gaze on Sam. His lips twitched upwards. "Hello there, Sam. I suppose dear Raphael has told you what you need to do?" He asked, and as Crowley placed himself between Lucifer and Michael, Lucifer took a step towards the human.

"Crowley has," Sam confirmed. He lifted his head a little, his jaw set and eyes determined. Lucifer grinned and out stretched a hand by his side.

"Good, good. All you need to do is say yes. You might feel a... small pinch," he said. 

"No way," Dean spoke up, sharp and angry. He stood in front of Sam, gripping his angel blade as if it would kill Lucifer. It might hurt him, but no more than an irksome scratch and it certainly would not kill him or even discorporate him. 

"I think you'll find that this is the best option for all of us." Lucifer's voice rumbled low and deep, intimidating, and Dean swallowed visibly. He didn't back down, however. Michael's path changed, instead heading to Dean with a sudden urgency - no doubt afraid Lucifer might just kill Dean right then and there.

The tension in the air was so thick Crowley feared he might choke. No one else dared to move a muscle lest Michael or Lucifer turn around and plunge their weapons into them, and Crowley's mind worked overtime to process the situation and think of the best decision he could make. 

Not-Gabriel and the other angel looked tired - as did Aziraphale and Castiel. Castiel had a small trail of blood staining beneath his nose, and Aziraphale had a painful bruise blossoming on his cheek, his suit a mess, chest heaving. Sam and Dean were already blossoming with bruises, holding themselves a certain way, and Gabriel looked torn within his own thoughts, his wings shuddering, outstretched, knuckles white around his blade. Michael and Lucifer stood toe to toe, Lucifer's eyes blood red and reeking of Hell; Michael casting off a Heavenly glow, his wings shining too bright for Crowley to really look at them for fear of burning his eyes with divinity. Their chosen weapons weighed heavily by their sides, deadly and threatening. They seemed to have a conversation between one another with just their eyes. It was very possible that they were. 

Michael threw his free hand out, and both Sam and Dean were thrown aside; not stopping until they collided with a tree and crumpled to the floor and didn't get back up. Michael then lunged for Lucifer, thrusting forth his lance, and the two beings quickly fell into a violent, swift dance of a battle. Not-Gabriel came out of his trance and lunged at Aziraphale and Castiel, and the other angel lunged at Gabriel once more. Rain poured from the sky, sudden and violent, wind whipping through wing feathers and through Crowley's newly-long hair, and lightning cast shadows of many, many wings on the battle field; moving like shields and weapons of themselves.

Crowley was frozen. Lucifer and Michael were little more than blurs, moving in a cloud of wings, shadow and light, violent and unrestrained. Not-Gabriel and the other angel were slowly gravitating towards Sam and Dean, no doubt with plans in mind to use the two humans to their advantage. A well placed strike had Castiel tumbling to the ground, dazed and hissing as he grasped onto a glowing wound, veins standing out starkly. It wasn't a fatal wound, but no doubt extremely painful. Not-Gabriel then lunged for Aziraphale, slashing hard and determined, and Crowley's heart leapt into his throat when a slash on his arm revealed heavenly light beneath his skin. 

Not-Gabriel went rigid. His blade hovered an inch from Aziraphale's face, stuck mid-strike, and from his mouth and his eyes his grace grew brighter. Castiel, heavily favouring one side, stood with a grim, determined look as he held the hilt of his blade to the back of his neck. Then he pulled it out, slick with gold, and Not-Gabriel crumpled. His wings exploded into fire that rapidly devoured each feather and each bone, leaving them as no more than a singed mark on the floor, and he stared blindly at the grey sky overhead. Castiel slumped, too, steadying himself on a nearby tree before he could collapse.

A similar flash of bright grace behind Crowley alerted him to the victory of Gabriel's fight, the archangel standing with shaking bronze wings and a slick blade in his hands. He had a wound in his leg that made him buckle. His lips moved to form a parting prayer to the angel he had killed, and then regarded everyone else from his spot on the floor, pressing a hand to his own wound. He looked mournful and angry, torn and still gathering himself. 

Sam and Dean had peeled themselves into sitting positions. They held themselves gingerly, faces pinched in pain, but whether it was Lucifer or Michael's own will or a bigger injury from colliding with the trees, they did not move, even when the two archangels danced dangerously close. Crowley was quick to make his way to the humans' sides, skirting around the whirlwind that was Michael and Lucifer, and he knelt down in the mud. He reached out for them, intending to bring them further away, at least, when a spike behind him stole his attention. 

Perhaps it was the way the thunder and lightning spiked, or perhaps the flash of red that seemed to steal the sky. Maybe the surprised, pained yell from Lucifer, or the way Lucifer's grace _roared_ beneath his skin. Maybe all of the above; but Crowley was on his feet in an instant, watching Lucifer stumble and clutch his side, spear forgotten, with Michael seizing the moment of vulnerability. 

His wings threw him forwards faster than light, or perhaps his instincts lashed out and time slowed, but he was by Lucifer's side faster than he could blink, grabbing him much alike Lucifer had caught him in the air earlier and pulling him far from the point of Michael's lance, landing instead in the dirt where Lucifer had stood instead.

They tumbled to the ground far from Michael. Not a clean landing, and Lucifer's grace seemed to flash threateningly as if to warn him not to do anything that might further pain him. 

Michael's lance had narrowly avoiding spearing right through him, but still had caught his side, leaving a wound that had already begun to heal slowly. He threw Crowley a tight grin, wheezing breaths. "Thanks, brother," he said with a wheezing laugh. "Got lazy."

" _Raphael_ ," hissed Michael, as if the name was nothing more than a joke of a pathetic person, stalking a few steps forwards and then pausing to glare at him in the midst of the clearing they had all been fighting in. "You have been a thorn in my side since the very Beginning. I would have thought that you would have learned your place in Hell, and yet here you are." In frustration, the archangel dramatically threw his free hand out to gesture around them. "What does it take to make you _learn?_ " 

Crowley couldn't pinpoint the catalyst for Michael's anger now. Whether it was frustration from missing his opportunity to kill Lucifer, or the fact that it was Crowley who had gotten in his way, or Crowley who had done the things he had done since Armageddon. Most likely all of them. 

He did not reply. He had nothing to say to Michael, even if anger boiled in his stomach, his veins hot with it. Michael was not a person Crowley wanted to ever see again - he thought it was one of the few luxuries he was offered, and it was terribly unfortunate for Aziraphale to have had to have dealt with the archangel as one of the highest direct chains of command in Heaven. 

"What indeed," Michael muttered to himself, and then he stalked to the side as if pacing, contemplating just what situation could ever make Crowley act like a normal demon - like Hastur or like Beelzebub or Ligur, perhaps. Michael paused, then bent down to pick up a discarded angel blade - perhaps Not-Gabriel's or the other angel that had been there with them. He weighed it in his hand thoughtfully, rolling it in his grasp and scrutinising it. Then his wings beat the air and propelled him forwards, towards Aziraphale and Castiel, crouched beside one another by a tree. Then, without a single hint of hesitation, he thrust it towards a startled Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale's wings shuddered, stretched out behind him, as his hands clutched at the hilt of the blade sinking into his stomach. His arms shook from the effort of stopping the blade fully sinking into himself. His eyes were wide and fearful, pained, and his chest heaved, cloudy with tears as he stared up at Michael. His tears shone brilliant light down his cheeks, and the gold on the blade and on his hands and on his clothes glittered like a thousand suns. 

Crowley launched forwards without hesitation. The word _angel_ stole from his lips in a hoarse yell, he threw himself at Michael in a fit of horror and anger, a blur of black wings, yellow eyes, gnashing fangs and hellish claws, punching and scratching and kicking and hissing and roaring, spitting words from his forked tongue in an old hell-born language that was used for little more than incantations these days. Because Aziraphale was hurt. He could very well be dead, Crowley too busy on Michael to look and check - and perhaps he was too afraid to look. Would he see Aziraphale, pale like snow, leaking gold blood around the remnants of his wings, no more than scorch marks on the floor beneath him? Would he make eye contact with Aziraphale, watch the light grow beneath them until it was all encompassing, and then hear the explosion of his wings bursting with his triggered grace, too late for a goodbye, too late for a demonic miracle. 

His reaction turned Michael gleeful. He left Castiel to catch a wheezing Aziraphale, turning to hold his lance steadily and meet Crowley head on. 

Crowley had spent the better part of six thousand years by or near Aziraphale. He had spent a lot of it doing minor miracles and temptations to get the angel out of ridiculous situations he found himself in, and they both had spent six thousand years dancing around one another to try and avoid bringing their companionship to the attention of Heaven and Hell. 

Six thousand years will not go just like that. They _will_ _not_. And if they did dare to do so, Crowley had six thousand years worth of emotions to unleash. 

Their wings brought them here and there, a blur of black and white, of Heaven and Hell. In the air and on the ground, and Crowley had never known such fury. Something in his ear whispered, _yes, keep going, he hurt you, he killed Aziraphale._

There's no burning bookshop this time around. No pub and endless amount of whiskey to indulge in. But there was a fire that burned beneath his skin; hot, furious hellfire that left burns similar to the ones from holy water on himself but on Michael's skin. The taunts and the threats and the things Michael said in hissed breaths and angry yells were lost, and when Michael burned as bright as the sun, forcing Sam and Dean to look away for their own safety, Crowley took it in and engulfed it in Hell's darkness.

Crowley was not an angel. He had not been an angel for some time, and he did not ever want to return to that even if he so longed for the times he could create nebulae with his hands and peace with his heart. Beneath Crowley's skin boiled a grace that had festered in Hell and now festered with Lucifer's, ablaze with damned power. For what Michael gave, Crowley countered with a Hellish equivalence. Michael lashed with his lance and Crowley lunged with his claws singed with hellfire. His hand caught his lance when he struck once more, and he tore it from the archangel and threw it away. The raindrops sang with divinity and left red marks on Crowley's skin and Lucifer was suddenly there, joining the battle happening far above the ground, saying something about grace and _for Aziraphale._

Lucifer's grace tore off from his own in a dazzling display of light that tumbled like smoke past Crowley's lips, running free like a wild hellhound, and foregoing human bodies and leaving the empty shells to crash to the ground, three stars entangled in the sky with an intensity that Crowley did not want to be a part of anymore.

He wanted Michael to pay. Of course he did. But suddenly Lucifer and Michael were burning each other out and the loss of Lucifer's grace felt like a sudden amputation, like a sudden crash of the most addictive, intense drugs, and he would rather be holding Aziraphale than turning into a demon like he had been, rage incarnate. 

He drifted slightly. Too caught in the vortex of Lucifer and Michael's true forms, blinding things wholly dedicated to destroying one another for their own twisted version of vengeance and justice, Crowley looked at the stars he had once created and never got to tell Aziraphale which once he had made, and Michael and Lucifer collided once more and exploded with burning, raw power. 

Crowley did not care what either of them did. They would never stop fighting until one of them died, and he could not care anymore. Aziraphale was likely dead, for he had ran off like a bloodthirsty demon rather than to his side to heal him, as he should have done, and something warm and endless and divine sang Crowley's name, and he fell into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Struggled between the idea of giving Not-Gabriel redemption because fan portrayals made me like him, or killing him because he fat shamed our angel :(
> 
> Anywho, hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a kudos or a comment if you would like to, I appreciate it all!
> 
> On another note, however; I plan this to either have 11 or 12 chapters. I want to write more for this verse; probably with the idea that Aziraphale and Crowley stick around with Team Free Will as chaotic, useless hunters, or just moral support really. But would people be interested in that as a longer book following the end of this one and just going hogwild with plots, subplots and cases etc, or multiple shorter stories/oneshots spread out in this universe? Or just entirely end it on this note or start another series? Or nothing at all, who knows? Please let me know what you think, thank you so much for reading!


	11. Oh, My Love, Oh, My Flower, Oh, Take My Hand When All Waters Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy I sure do love an unnecessarily long chapter title!  
> I honestly didn't expect to have this part out today, but I did, so yay!  
> Enjoy! Thank you all so much for reading, and I hope you like this part and the story as a whole.

For a long time - arguably for a large portion of eternity - Crowley floated. He had never felt better. He was warm and comfortable and safe, and he trusted that wherever he was, that it was safe. Nothing else mattered for he felt like he was in Heaven. Then again, if he was in Heaven then he certainly wouldn't feel so good. Nonetheless, he couldn't really bring himself to care. He let himself float in this warm void without a worry, without any hesitation or any urgency. It felt as if he was on the most comfortable bed ever, having the best sleep of his entire existence. When he peeled open his eyes, he found that there was nothing around him. Nothing at all. An expanse of gentle golden light was the only thing that existed here, and although he could feel a floor beneath him, there appeared to be none. 

It was very clear that when an angel or a demon died, there was no Heaven or Hell for them. Perhaps purgatory, but it was assumed that there was simply nothing. For a moment Crowley's heart leapt into his throat; was he dead? Was he to spend eternity in this expanse of nothingness? One might argue that he wouldn't be that aware if he was dead, or one would argue that death for a demon wouldn't feel so safe. One might argue a lot of points, and none that Crowley could necessarily confirm nor deny. In the end he decided that trying to figure out where he was was pointless, but that he should rather focus on finding how to get out of there. Unless he was dead; then he doubted that would really work.

"I'm afraid you are not alive but you're not quite dead either, Crowley."

A voice echoed around him, everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He flinched, jumping out of his skin. He would recognise that voice anywhere.

"Well, uh. I didn't know someone could be both and neither at the same time," he spluttered, trying to feign nonchalance. She let out a small laugh. 

"You never cease to amaze, huh," She said, amusement in Her voice. "I may or may not have had a hand in the matter, to be fair."

Crowley shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Ah, yeah. That - that would make sense." His head bobbed into a heavy nod. He looked around as if he expected to see Her standing somewhere nearby in a human form. Unsurprisingly, She wasn't.

"You've been busy this last week, haven't you?"

"I've been told that as well," he agreed. "I, yeah. Yeah, I have. You know me..." He grinned tensely, awkward, and continued to look around. "You... you're not here to, ah, punish me, are you? 'Cause I swear that's really not necessary - I got a - a tad out of hand, maybe so, but just send me packing back to Earth and I'll be _so_ quiet for the next millennia you'll forget all about me-"

"I'm not here to punish you, Crowley." A sigh echoed around him, as if simultaneously disappointed in both Crowley and Herself. Crowley rocked on his heels, pressing his lips together. 

"Well, uh. That's - that's a relief," he sighed. "I... not to sound so terribly rude, your... your Grace, but then what are You here for?" His voice was hesitant as if he feared the answer. His forked tongue hurried to blurt more ramblings. "And - and, what do You mean I'm not alive but not dead? And where am I? I really need to get going, there's the - shit - Lucifer and Michael and - oh, Go-Sat- _someone_ , _Aziraphale_ -"

"Calm down, Crowley," She said, and it seemed more of an order. Nonetheless, warmth spread throughout his shoulders, forcing tension out of his wired up muscles and forcing him to take a breath, slouching and calming almost immediately. He ran a hand through his hair and heaved out an unsteady sigh, then continued to peer around himself.

"You're currently with Me. That's all you need to know about where you are." There was a pause, then a sigh, and the light around him grew steadily brighter until Crowley had to throw a hand over his eyes and look away. Only when it dimmed did he dare peer out again, and his eyes settled on a form. She was ethereal, taking a not-quite human form as she rippled and shimmered like a light's reflection on the ocean surface, and her skin was not pale, for it was a golden glow. Her eyes were shaped like wide almonds and held galaxies, and her lips wore a savage smile. She stood tall; taller than Crowley, with limbs too long to really look human, and an outfit similar to Crowley's in Golgotha, save the scarf and rather pure white, hung off Her sharp frame. Hair like wing feathers composed of light and energy cascaded past Her hips. She strode with a large sway in Her hips, Her fingertips brushing Her knees with each sway, and then She stood in front of Crowley. 

Really, Her presence should have been enough to kill him, for he was a demon and She was but the peak of divinity. But Her intention was not to kill him, so She didn't. Crowley took a step back, away from Her, and She seemed to shrug and then lower herself onto the floor, stretching Her limbs out and looking around much as if they were sitting in some scenic place, basking in the peace. Crowley couldn't fully relax.

"Am I... stuck here?" He asked, tentative. He raised a hand to rub his eyes. He didn't feel tired, or drained, or sore here, but he could feel it in some phantom sense. At the very least, he felt thoroughly confused. And, he realised as the gravity of everything settled in, very conflicted. The Almighty was sitting in front of him in some scraped together form for him to be able to lay his eyes upon Her. Her, who had abandoned him many eons ago, and seemed to be acting as if they were... old friends, rather than a demon and God. He felt old wounds open again, made his eyes sting and his chest tighten, and he felt anger churn in his bones. 

"Not if I don't want you to be," She said, sparing him a glance.

"Let me go."

"We've hardly had time to talk, my dear-"

"You've had _six thousands years._ " It came out with a hiss, his hands curling into fists by his sides. "What could you possibly want to talk to me, a lowly, dirty _demon_ , about now?" He wasn't sure if God could really be intimidated, but he sure as Hell tried his best; wings stretching out, eyes flashing yellow, forked tongue flicking out between rows of venomous fangs. The Almighty did not look surprised; she didn't look at all. Her head was turned away from him and she seemed more interested in stretching out her fingers than Crowley's entire presence.

"Yes, maybe so. Don't take it personally, though; I've not spoken to anyone."

"If you're trying to tell me to be grateful that you're talking to me now, I won't accept it."

She laughed; low and hearty. "Of course you wouldn't. I didn't expect you to." She shook Her head and let out an almost amused sigh. "But no, I wasn't going to say that in the first place anyway. Sit down."

"I'd rather not." 

She gave him a look akin to fond exasperation, and Crowley's glare wavered. He looked aside. "Please. Just let me out."

"There is a reason I brought you here, Crowley," She stated. "And I'm afraid it'll take me at least a couple more minutes to fix you up enough to send you back, whether that is to life or death."

Crowley raised an eyebrow, startled. "And that's supposed to mean what?" He asked, wide-eyed. The Almighty hummed nonchalantly. 

"You can't expect to have survived that little stunt that just happened," She snorted. 

"If it means anything, I really can't remember what happened," Crowley admitted, scratching his jaw. The Almighty let out another laugh.

"I didn't expect you to, either. You went after Michael on your own. Lucifer joined you and took back his grace, and really that was the only thing keeping you from being smote immediately. Quite a dirty trick from the Morningstar, if you ask me."

"Lucifer killed me?"

"Oh, not purposefully, I'd say. But yes. Michael too had a hand in it, if you wanted to know. I intervened with Death, and here we are." 

Crowley dropped his head into his hands, fingertips prodding the bags beneath his eyes. Slowly, he lowered himself until he was sitting down. Not next to the Almighty, but close. "So I'm dead?" He snorted and shook his head. "Is everyone else dead?"

"I already told you; you're not technically dead. You still need to learn to listen, it seems."

Crowley couldn't help but stiffen at this as if he expected her to send him Falling once again. She almost seemed guilty for a brief moment. Almost. 

"Everyone else is basking in their own near death experiences. Also quite in awe, considering I had to stop the sky from literally falling onto the Earth."

Crowley inclined his head slightly and took in an unsteady breath. "And... Aziraphale?"

"I heard he kicked up quite a storm in Heaven, didn't he?" The Almighty mused like a gossiping soccer-mom. 

"Is he alright?" Crowley insisted. His hands held a fearful tremor as they settled on his thighs, his eyes stuck on the glow around him. "Michael - Michael killed him."

The Almighty's eyes flashed as She turned to regard Earth from where She sat. "I've done my fair share of miracles," She shrugged, for unseen by Crowley the angel sat on the ground, no trace of any wound left save for a small ache that might follow him for the following few days, and ignorant to the after-battle composing everyone was going through, too busy clutching a battered, dead vessel with red hair and vacant serpentine eyes in his embrace, stammering disbelieving pleads and prayers that clogged the Almighty's mind. Gabriel was crouched beside him, both trying to offer him comfort and trying to figure out just what was happening. 

Crowley took Her response as something positive and forced himself to nod. "Then - then thank you," he uttered unsteadily. The Almighty simply inclined Her head in acknowledgement. "Lucifer?" He asked next. The Almighty hummed.

"Nothing of your concern, little one. Take this moment to rest. I can't promise you won't have an unbearable migraine in a few minutes."

Crowley closed his eyes, but found he could not relax either way. Had he had a working heart in this plane, it would have broken through his ribcage by now. With the Almighty's intense presence sitting so casually nearby him, he could not will his tension and anxieties away like this. She didn't seem to pick up on it; or She simply didn't care either way. Crowley wanted to run away from Her and scream at Her and show Her exactly what She had turned him into. At the same time, he wanted to go closer to Her and bask in Her divine presence until he was drunk off it.

He did neither. He sat stock still, muscles wired up, fight or flight instinct teetering between the two options, ready to be triggered at a moments notice.

"You have impressed me this last decade, Crowley," She said, turning Her gaze towards him. "With the Antichrist, Aziraphale, Hell, Heaven. The Winchester's. I might even say that you made me proud."

"Too proud that you had to get rid of me?" Crowley retorted. The Almighty gave him a twisted look, but She didn't make to reprimand him or apologise, either. Crowley didn't expect Her to. 

"I never created angels to be _good_ ," She stated. 

"Just to do what you said," Crowley finished for Her, muttering and shaking his head. She regarded him for several long moments, stretching them out across eternity, and then She turned Her gaze elsewhere. 

"You were one of my oddest creations, I think," She hummed. "Perhaps one of my best. And I failed you, and I can't make up for that now."

"You can't," agreed Crowley, huffing and folding his arms across his chest. He turned away, avoiding Her gaze. "And I don't want You to. I would have been perfectly happy without this meeting." It was both true and not; this would undoubtedly leave him with more questions than he started with. Leave him more unsettled than he was prior to this meeting. But, if She ever decided to stop being so ominous, he hoped it might also give him some closure. He doubted it.

"Do You care?" He asked, and his voice was ragged as he spoke. "About any of us? About me? Aziraphale? Lucifer and Gabriel, Castiel and the Winchesters, about Your humans? Do you really care?" 

She looked away from him in thought, as if they were having a small debate rather than talking about this grand subject.

"I've trusted you all with free will. It is not my interest what you do with it," She finally said with a shrug. "But do I care? Yes. Perhaps not in the way you wish, but I do."

Crowley clenched his jaw and nodded stiffly. "Of course," he muttered to himself. He swallowed once, blinked twice, and had nothing more to say. He lowered himself down onto his back and looked up into the endless light around them both. 

He had no idea what was going on with everyone else. She had made it out to look as if Aziraphale was still alive, despite what very well should have been a fatal blow. Everyone else? He had no idea. He hadn't paid attention to them or what he was doing as soon as Michael had done that to Aziraphale; he had seen red and he had let it take him. Then everything had happened in a blink of an eye, and he was supposed to be truly dead. How peaceful that would have been, he thought. No Heaven, no Hell. Just pure nothingness. Perhaps he would have spent eternity in a dream; maybe one in which himself and Aziraphale were human, and they lived their short, fragile life out in a cottage in the countryside, with a fruit and vegetable garden blooming throughout all seasons in the year, and they would grow old and frail but happy and together.

Or perhaps there would be pure, blissful nothingness for Crowley. He would take either option, really. Though he supposed he would much prefer the real Aziraphale to whatever one his own imagination could come up with. 

There was a growing pain in his head. Right behind his eyes, growing from a slow pulse to a steadily progressing ache, and Crowley peeled his eyes open to peer over at the Almighty who smiled down at him.

"I did say there might be a migraine," She told him. Crowley's eyes blew wide, and he realised, suddenly, that this was most likely the only time he would ever get to speak to Her again. He sat up despite the way his limbs now felt heavy and sluggish, turning to Her.

"Wait!" He barked out. And then he was on a cold, wet ground, feeling very much like he'd just been hit by multiple freight trains, and he was spluttering for air his lungs needed right now. There were arms around him, however, and little drops of cold water on his cheek, and as his sight returned, the beige blob above him turned into a rather blurry, very worried, horribly confused Aziraphale. Still stained with blood from a non-existent wound, his hands gripped onto Crowley, twisted in an awkward position of heavy limbs in his lap, in a death grip, and there were trails of tears down his own cheeks and more threatening to spill had shock not suddenly taken him.

"Aziraphale," said Crowely, but it came out much more like _"azzhhir"_ before it melted into a painful coughing fit. 

He came to the sudden realisation that he was surrounded. Sam and Dean were crouched a few feet to his left, holding themselves awkwardly, and their faces that previously held grief and guilt turned quickly to shock and confusion. Aziraphale, as already stated, was right by him, clutching him to his chest, and Gabriel was there, too, one hand on Crowley's arm that he had yet to find the strength to move. Castiel had gravitated to the Winchesters and had looked grim before turning right to shock and disbelief. Lucifer and Michael were nowhere to be seen, and the sky had a splendid light show like the one Lucifer had showed him in Norway. 

And _Almighty_ , did his body _ache_. The migraine She had promised him was certainly there, and he was very glad for the fact that it was night and dark and quiet, and his bones felt like a stranger's. His grace churned emptily, feeling small and empty without Lucifer's and, he realised with belated horror, despite the fact his main set of wings was still their full, original length before he had Fallen, where the other two would have sprouted from his body sat large patterns of bruising. He threw one hand uncoordinatedly to the area above the nape of his neck and flinched. His hand came into contact with nothing but air. With not enough grace any more to support them, they had broken off once more. It made him nauseous and made a sound he wouldn't admit to fall past his lips. 

There were more important things, however. Such as the way Aziraphale was spluttering out his name, leaning back just enough to really look at him, and how everyone was muttering their own variations of "what the fuck" and "I thought he was dead."

"Cr-Crowley," Aziraphale finally managed. "You were - my - you were dead! Crowley-" He cut himself off with a breath and then swallowed heavily, his Adam's apple bobbing heavily in his throat. Using him as support, Crowley forced himself into a half-sitting position before giving up and slumping. His limbs felt not only as if he had been hit by multiple freight trains, but as if he had overexerted himself in human exercise the day before; all painful and weak to move and to use. 

"Yup," he said, then grimaced as the words grated his throat. He ought to be grateful that he was alive, but he thought that She might have been able to make his return a little less... overwhelmingly achy. "I was."

Aziraphale blinked rapidly, and Crowley could virtually hear the mess that was his current train of thought. He shrugged one shoulder half-heartedly. "Almighty," he simply said. "'m alive now." 

"I can see that," Aziraphale spluttered uncertainly, and it made Crowley's lips turn upwards. He closed his eyes, let his hand find Aziraphale's wrist and seek out the steady (unnecessary but comforting) beating of his heart, and then he promptly fell unconscious. 

When he did open his eyes again, he was very aware of the fact that although his body still felt achy, it was nothing more than that same ache he always had during Christmas and Easter (such horrible holidays for a demon, truly) and one he could happily ignore. He was aware of the fact that he was in a bed in the Winchester's bunker, and he could feel that the warding was complete; therefore the door had been replaced successfully. Peeling himself off the bed. He was clean of any traces of blood and mud and the bruises and scratches littered around his body were almost fully healed (the ones in place of his wings would take longer, but he would also force himself to thoroughly ignore them) and his hair was still long, falling down his back in curls. Voices from the bunker's kitchen drifted towards his ears and he made his way towards them slowly. 

A familiar trio sat with a principality and archangel at the kitchen table. Music was playing gently from Sam's laptop and the smell of well cooked dinner made his mouth water inexplicably. Everyone had been chatting about something that was no doubt not interesting to Crowley, although it didn't matter as the conversation stopped upon his entrance.

"Crowley," greeted Aziraphale, his face lighting up immediately. The book in his hands was forgotten on the table as he stood up and gravitated to his side, looking him up and down and inspecting him. "How are you feeling, my dear? Are you alright?"

"'m fine, Angel," he said, but didn't necessarily stop his fussing. "Uh... how long's it been?" He asked. Aziraphale smiled meekly.

"A few days," he said. "You've been sleeping since."

Normally, Crowley wouldn't care how long he slept for. But he had chosen a terrible time to tap out for another long nap; he hadn't even made sure everyone else was alright and safe and there was no more danger. Aziraphale must have seen the way his eyes widened for he squeezed his arm gently. "We're all fine, though. Well, the Winchester's less so - being human and fragile and such - but we're fine. Nothing has happened since... then, and we've been in the bunker since. Gabriel came with us, too."

Crowley took a moment to look at everyone. Sam and Dean arguably looked the worst; bruises healing much slower than any of theirs, and Dean had two crutches propped up on the table next to where he sat and one of Sam's arm rested in a sling. Gabriel, Castiel and Aziraphale looked tired, but not injured. Aziraphale was not injured; he was not dead. Even if the image of him doubling over was burned into his mind, here he stood; unharmed, fine. Crowley forced himself to repeat that over and over. He was fine. Fine. Safe. Crowley nodded his head in acknowledgement and allowed Aziraphale to guide him down to a seat, lowering him into it. Aziraphale stayed by his side, one hand on his shoulder, his hips leaning against the table. He ducked his head slightly to catch his eyes. "How are you feeling?" He asked. "You..."

"Were dead," Crowley said, bobbing his head. "Yup. Very much so," he confirmed. "But I'm alive now. Which is, you know. Good."

Dean snorted and Crowley glared pathetically at him. "It certainly is," Aziraphale said. Despite the strong face he was putting up, Crowley could see in his face and in his body that he was tense. Fearful that he might blink and Crowley would be dead in his arms once more. Crowley reached out to take his hand and subtly position it so Aziraphale could feel his heart beating beneath his skin. 

"Was kind of dumb of me, going after Michael like that," he simply said with a shrug. "Didn't really... plan that part out."

Aziraphale snorted and dipped his head down to avoid his gaze. Crowley squeezed his hand gently, feeling guilt boil in his stomach. He knew what it felt like to lose Aziraphale, but at least then the angel hadn't actually been dead. Crowley had been, and he shouldn't have come back. 

"You mentioned the Almighty," said Gabriel, curious. His eyes were intense on him, too, as if reassuring himself still that Crowley was actually alive. Crowley hissed out a breath and nodded.

"Yeah... wild story, really." He scratched the back of his neck with an awkward laugh, looking aside. "I, uh. Died. You know that part; no match for two angry archangels, it seems. Then I woke up. Our dear Almighty intervened. Guess it wasn't my time, so you're stuck with me," he shrugged with an attempt at a grin. Aziraphale frowned at his joke and Crowley just nudged him gently, knocking their knees together. 

"You saw Her?" Castiel gaped. Crowley grimaced.

"Uh, yeah. I did. We didn't really talk, sorry to say. She didn't explain anything, either."

"That's very Her," Gabriel retorted with the shake of his head, sparing a glance upwards. 

"Never do anything like that again," Aziraphale uttered beneath his breath, and Crowley looked up to catch his pained expression. He frowned, and then Aziraphale was ducking forwards to suddenly hug him. The affection was unexpected but certainly not unwelcome, and after a moment Crowley was quick to return it, his chin propped on Aziraphale's shoulder and arms returning the embrace. Aziraphale's fingers parted through his hair as they settled on his back, his breath hitching almost unnoticeably if they hadn't been so close.

"I'm sorry," Crowley whispered. "Angel, I'm sorry."

Aziraphale said nothing but, after simply reassuring himself with Crowley moving and living underneath his touch, he moved back enough to regard him, leaving his hands on Crowley's arms. "Just promise me that this is all over," he pleaded, eyes begging. "The lies, the secrets, the drama. All of it."

Crowley was all too eager to vigorously nod his head. "It is, it is," he swore. "I promise, Aziraphale." He was almost fearful that the angel wouldn't believe him. His hand sought out his, interlacing their fingers. It was a simple relief that the angel didn't deny him the gesture. 

"Lucifer and Michael haven't been seen, heard or felt since," Sam offered. "No angels or demons have come after us, either."

"It's over, then," Crowley sighed, and he slumped to rest his forehead on Aziraphale's chest. "I'm sorry."

"I accept your apology," the angel said. He squeezed Crowley's hand. 

"Can we go back to London?" Crowley murmured, peeling his eyes open once more to look hopefully at Aziraphale. The angel offered him a lopsided, hesitant smile that made Crowley groan and lean back. 

"Well..."

"No."

"Crowley-"

"No."

"My dear-"

"My bloody plants will be dead."

"They will not be," Aziraphale told him. "But after all that's happened, I think it would be a good idea if we stayed for just a little longer. To watch the Antichrist, like we planned."

Crowley closed his eyes. "Who even cares about the Antichrist these days? That was all, like, weeks ago."

"Weeks, Crowley. Not even months."

Crowley shrugged helplessly and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Cottage?" He asked. Aziraphale smiled.

"It'll need dusting."

Crowley heaved himself to his feet, then turned to look at everyone else who had been watching them talk awkwardly. He grimaced. Gabriel snorted.

"I'm just glad to see your dumbass is still alive," stated the archangel. He rose to his feet and stepped over to his side, setting a hand on Crowley's shoulder. Then he leaned down to hug the demon forcefully, clapping a hand on his back. "Stick around America. I'll recommend some cafe's."

Crowley hesitated before sheepishly returning the hug to his brother as well. "When you put it like that," he joked, and Gabriel snorted, slapped his back once more and then pulled back and nudged him. 

"And I'll be checking in," continued Gabriel. "Make sure you've not gone and gotten yourself kidnapped or something. But I did go and just disappear from my life; I need to fix up some loose ends, now."

"Ever the business man," Crowley commented. Gabriel gave him a look and then winked, and all of a sudden the archangel was gone with a gust of wind. Aziraphale blinked a few time sand Sam and Dean startled, then quickly composed themselves. "He's never been one for sappy moments," Crowley snorted. 

"Do you have a place to stay?" Sam inquired across the table. Crowley turned to the man, then glanced at Aziraphale.

"Near here, actually," Aziraphale confirmed. "A little cottage closer to town, but out of the way. You should come for tea."

"What?" Crowley spluttered, them blushed and shrugged. "Ah, of course. Yeah. Definitely."

"Either way, you still have our number if you're leaving," Sam said. "It might be a good idea to stay in contact considering what just happened."

"Most definitely," Aziraphale nodded, shattering any hopes of Crowley spending his time peacefully tending to a garden with just Aziraphale by his side. With a sigh, Crowley heaved himself to his feet and regarded everyone. It seemed that things had been resolved in the time he had spent asleep, which was fine by him. He was completely fine to let them handle composing everyone again and then bask in the security and peace after it, and it seemed everyone, too, was eager to move on and just rest now that everything seemed to be sorted out. Crowley did not know what happened with Michael and Lucifer, and he found that he didn't necessarily want to know. It didn't seem important at the moment, and he would much rather continue to stay clear of the hole he had dug himself these past few days. 

"Well, Winchesters. Castiel. Thanks for the help, lovely meeting you lot," he said, nodding his head. "I don't doubt fate will have us together again for the next Armageddon in a week or so. Try not to die." And with that perfect goodbye, Crowley headed towards the stares, basking in the silence that followed him before Aziraphale hurried to give a proper goodbye and thank them all. He heard him and Sam discuss briefly the topic of staying in contact and, after wishing one another good luck, Aziraphale was scurrying after Crowley.

His Bentley was outside. Crowley had never been so overjoyed to see the car before, and when he slid into the driver's seat he almost wept. "Oh, I've missed you," he murmured, running his hands lovingly along the steering wheel. 

"I'm not one for sleep," said Aziraphale, slumping into the passenger's seat, "but I think I might be ready to give it another try."

Crowley's lips turned into a sly grin. "Oh? Well, I could certainly indulge."

"I'm almost tempted to just go to London."

"Again, I could certainly indulge in that." 

"Maybe some time in nature would do us good," Aziraphale commented. He pulled the seatbelt across himself, clipping it in, and Crowley started the car up. "You did say you wanted to use some time here to start a garden."

"I did," Crowley confirmed, pulling away from the bunker. 

"We could cook our own food with it!" Aziraphale grinned. Crowley spared the happy, tired angel a fond glance.

"We could," he agreed. 

Aziraphale rambled on about new ideas for their little cottage they had procured, seemingly more focused on that than watching the Antichrist. _Queen_ drifted out of the car speakers. 

_But touch my tears with your lips_

_Touch my world with your fingertips_

_And we can have forever_

_And we can love forever_

_Forever is our today._

"Are you sure about this?" 

He made eye contact with Aziraphale in the bathroom mirror and raised an eyebrow. "I've already told you; yes."

"You could just miracle it back."

"Oh, I will. I'm not asking you to style it perfectly, Angel. I thought this would be fun, though. Just cut it."

Aziraphale looked anxiously at the scissors in his hand, then at Crowley's hair held loosely in one hand. 

"I think long hair quite suits you," he commented. Crowley shrugged.

"Maybe so, but I want it short right now. Not feeling the angel look after what just happened. Maybe I'll make it long again later."

Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair, scalp to ends, and Crowley's head tipped slightly towards his hand with a content sigh. "I suppose so, my dear. Alright..." 

He lifted the scissors to his hair, slowly, gently cutting through the long locks, a small, giddy smile on his lips as he went. Crowley couldn't help but smile, too.

"It's freeing, huh?" The demon mused, watching Aziraphale in the mirror. The angel spared him a glance and nodded.

"You're right," he agreed. "It is."

Sitting on the bathroom floor of this little cottage out of the way, silk pyjamas replacing his usual clothes, with some wine still warm in his stomach, the moonlight shining in through the window, Crowley felt rather content. Even despite the events of the past few days. Aziraphale's cheeks flushed with wine, tongue poking out his lips in concentration as he cut his hair short. His hands gently coaxed his head this way and that, and Crowley slumped against him.

"Dear, if you do that right now I might catch you with the scissors."

"I'm a demon, Aziraphale. It doesn't really matter."

Aziraphale gave him a look and Crowley turned his head to look at him rather than through the mirror and he grinned childishly at him. "Can I still tempt you with sleep?" He inquired. 

"With your hair like that?" The angel asked, gesturing to the choppily cut mess that it was. With a twitch of his hand, his hair returned to the short, spiked style it had originally been a few days ago. He raised his eyebrows. The angel gave him a look and Crowley picked himself off the bathroom floor, took Aziraphale's hands, and padded through to the small bedroom their cottage had and the king sized bed that took up most of the room. Disgustingly, Aziraphale had made the bedsheets turn into a beige tartan, but Crowley was willing to overlook it for the time being. 

He pulled Aziraphale onto the bed and, as soon as the angel looked comfortable laying down with the covers over himself, Crowley shuffled closer and, upon receiving no rejection, all but wrapped himself around the angel like a snake, as well as he could without actually being a snake. The angel let out a quiet "oh" before wrapping his arms around Crowley hesitant, then happily, his cheeks twitching as he smiled. 

"I guess I could come to bed at nights," the angel murmured. Crowley smirked and nudged his neck with his nose.

"Oh really? I think I'd be happy with that," he replied. "The least we both have deserved after this shit show."

"Language, dear boy."

"Go to sleep, Angel."

Aziraphale sighed softly, breath warm on his cheek. "It's over now," the angel murmured. Crowley opened his eyes to look at him for a moment before lifting his head to meet his eyes. 

"It is," he said. "I promise." 

Aziraphale blinked blue eyes open to meet Crowley's, then nodded once. Crowley ducked his head back down, his hand drawing patterns on Aziraphale's arm. "It's over. We're all good. We are."

"I know, I know," responded the angel. "I'm just... very relieved."

"You and me both. We can start that garden tomorrow, huh?"

Aziraphale smiled. Crowley tucked his head into the crook of his neck. "I would like that," Aziraphale said. Crowley's hand slowed from where it ran up and down Aziraphale's arm. His other settled on his stomach, above where there should have been a wound. He was perfectly okay. Safe, unhurt, loving. Safe. 

The angel inhaled softly. Crowley seemed to shuffle impossibly closer in his sleep, leeching off every inch of body heat he gave off, and Aziraphale didn't mind it. The closeness was unfamiliar territory for the both of them, but truly not unpleasant. Aziraphale decided that he could indulge in this little thing between the two of them without fear of Heaven and Hell on them. He could indulge quite happily, in fact. 

"Sleep well, my dear," he uttered and, just to be sure, drifted his fingers across the wrinkles on Crowley's forehead, smoothing them out. 

_Who wants to live forever?_

_Forever is our today_

_Who waits forever anyway?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it!  
> I did not expect to spend my summer completing two stories, but here I am. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave a comment if you did; I do greatly appreciate it!  
> I do plan on writing some more for this verse, so if you like affectionate ineffable husbands reaching their peak dumbass, then perhaps I'll see you in that. 
> 
> PS; it infuriates me this is like 500 words from being 100K in the series. Only 500 more. Sigh
> 
> Feel free to find me on Tumblr @veteranklaus, feel free to check out my other stories, all that good stuff, and thank you all for the support I received writing this series so far, it blew me away! <3


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